"To wear a mask is to hold power.
But to become the mask—
That is the edge between sanity and madness."
— Anonymous Watcher.
The warehouse air stank of blood and mold.
Dozens of hooded figures knelt in a circle, their voices chanting in a language that scraped against the mind like broken glass. Their flesh was carved with crude sigils, each glowing faintly, writhing as if alive.
At the center, the corpse twitched. Its lips moved, spilling whispers that didn't belong to the dead.
And all of them had turned toward the door—toward Elias.
For one heartbeat, silence reigned.
Then the leader rose. His hood slipped back, revealing a face etched with scars and inked runes. His eyes were empty voids.
"You should not be here, outsider," he hissed, his voice layered with dozens of echoes.
Elias adjusted his coat, as if brushing off dust. Calm. Detached. His heart thundered, but his expression didn't falter.
He remembered Jonas' words: "Act the role until the role becomes you."
So Elias smiled faintly.
"Outsider? No. I'm late. Did the Choir start without me?"
A ripple moved through the cult. Some whispered among themselves, uncertain. The leader narrowed his void-like gaze.
Elias stepped forward, each motion deliberate, as though he belonged. His mind raced, threads of crimson fate tightening around the cultists—he could see their doubts, their cracks.
He raised his hand casually, as though revealing a mark. In truth, his palm was empty. But the Veil Deck shimmered faintly in his coat pocket, whispering cards into his mind. One surfaced—the Hanged Man.
He projected the image outward. For a brief instant, to their madness-twisted eyes, his skin crawled with false sigils.
Several cultists gasped.
"He bears the Choir's blessing…"
The leader stiffened. His grip on the ritual knife faltered.
Elias' lips curved. "Now, let us proceed. The corpse won't sing forever, will it?"
The chant resumed, uncertain but obedient. The leader's eyes lingered on Elias, suspicion still sharp. But madness was easier to fool than reason.
Elias took a place in the circle, kneeling just beyond the blood-soaked sigils. His mind sharpened, Observer sight drinking in every detail:
The corpse was not a vessel, but a beacon. Something on the other side was already watching.
The blood basin trembled, its surface rippling though no wind touched it.
Threads of fate tied each cultist to the leader, but the leader's thread vanished into blackness—cut, severed, or swallowed.
His chest tightened. If I stare too long, I'll be pulled in too.
So he forced himself to look away, hiding the flicker of unease behind another amused smirk.
Then, the whispers grew louder.
Not from the corpse, but from within him.
"Join us. Carve your skin. Bleed with us. Do not watch—become."
Flames stirred in his veins, itching, hungry. His hands trembled. For a split second, the ritual nearly pulled him under. His body leaned forward, lips parting to chant.
And then the book inside his coat snapped open.
Silver light flared across his chest. Words etched themselves into his vision:
"Act the Part. Do Not Break Character."
His mind cleared. His trembling stilled. He almost laughed. Even my own damn grimoire is reminding me how to act.
The leader's knife descended toward the corpse's chest.
That was the trigger. Elias felt it in his bones. If the blade pierced, the beacon would open wide—and whatever lurked beyond would arrive.
His gaze flickered to the cultists. Their threads quivered, ripe, fragile. He could pluck one, twist one, make them dance.
And so he did.
He whispered a word under his breath. The fire in his blood swirled, not into his body, but into the thread of the nearest cultist.
The man convulsed. His eyes bulged, his mouth stretching in a scream. "Lies! He is false! He wears no true mark!"
The circle erupted into chaos.
Knives turned. Blood splashed. The leader roared, his voice shaking the walls. "Silence him!"
Elias rose, brushing off his knees. The monocle burned cold against his eye, revealing the corpse's true face—a mask of rotting shadow staring directly at him.
And he smiled faintly, tipping his head like a performer acknowledging applause.
"Ah. The act is over."
Flames roared from his hands. Not wild, not consuming—but controlled, shaped into chains of fire that lashed outward, binding the nearest cultists.
The warehouse filled with screams.
And above them all, the corpse whispered a single phrase—
directly into Elias' mind:
"Observer. Trickster. Fool.
We remember your face."
---
"To play the role is to survive.
To believe the role is to ascend.
But forget yourself—and you are lost forever."