"Not exactly," I said, the tired smile never leaving my face.
It wasn't a mocking smile, but the smile of someone who had stared into the abyss—and had it stare back.
"I don't think therapy sessions will do anything in this place. It's not looking for 'understanding'… it wants something… more direct. More… honest."
I looked at the empty frame that had once held my smiling reflection.
A pale, blank page.
'What do you have to offer? Another mask? Another lie?'
"This emptiness…" I muttered, gesturing toward it.
"It doesn't want a new image of Adam Lester, the mysterious student."
"It's had enough of masks. I think… it wants the truth. The truth of what lies behind all these damn façades we wear."
"….."
A strange silence settled over the corridor.
A silence heavy with anticipation. Leo, Noor, and Sam were staring at me.
They probably thought I had finally lost my mind.
Who could blame them?
"And what is this 'truth' you're talking about, Lester?"
Leo's voice was calm… the mockery gone, replaced by something else.
Maybe curiosity. Or maybe… desperation—willing to try anything.
I took a deep breath.
I felt the weight of every lie. Not just Adam Lester's lie—but all the lies that came before it.
'You can't fill the void of lies with cleverness,' a voice whispered inside me.
The miserable voice of reason that only shows up when all defenses collapse.
'You can only fill it with truth… no matter how pathetic it is.'
I had always hated this kind of horror story—the kind that forces you to confess.
"I don't know what it wants from you," I said, meeting their eyes one by one. "But I think I know what it wants from me."
With slow steps, I approached the empty frame.
I stood before it… staring into nothingness.
I didn't try to imagine an image.
I didn't try to be clever.
I just… surrendered.
I closed my eyes for a moment.
Gathered what little courage I had left—which wasn't much. Then, in a calm, clear voice—a voice that didn't feel like mine—I offered my sacrifice to this sick artistic ruler.
"I… I am not Adam Lester."
The words left me like a final confession on a deathbed.
A heavy weight lifted from my chest. A weight I hadn't even realized I was carrying.
I opened my eyes, a weary, bitter smile forming on my lips.
Because I realized the absurd truth.
Salvation isn't an epic battle… it's simply standing before an empty mirror and admitting you don't even have a face to show it.
That's why the elderly confess their sins before death.
They don't want to take them to the grave.
"I…" I hesitated, staring into the white void.
"I'm not a hero. I'm not a villain. I'm not even a character in this story."
"I'm just someone living a stolen life—breathing with lungs that aren't mine, seeing through someone else's eyes."
I continued, my voice now barely more than a whisper.
"I'm just… Adam."
The moment I finished speaking—the moment I admitted that discomfort—something happened.
"Whooosh!!"
The painting with the white demonic smile before me… was no longer empty.
But it didn't show my face. Not the face of "Adam Lester," nor my old one.
Instead, slowly—as if an unseen hand were painting with light—a series of symbolic images began to appear.
Fleeting scenes.
I saw… a hand reaching out to another—then hesitating at the last moment, pulling back, leaving the other hand suspended in emptiness.
The image changed. A faint silhouette stood before a shattered mirror… each shard reflecting a different, distorted fragment of its face.
There was no complete image.
Finally, the painting settled on a simple yet deeply striking scene:
A lone figure standing at the edge of a high cliff, gazing into an endless sea of gray fog.
It wasn't a beautiful painting.
It was painfully honest.
It was my painting.
"...."
A suffocating silence filled the corridor.
Leo, Noor, and Sam stared at the painting… then at me. They didn't understand the images—but they felt their weight.
'How could they understand my dilemma?' I thought.
They fight to rise… while I fight just to survive.
Slowly, I turned to look at the little girl's painting.
And for the first time… the tears of blood stopped.
The small hand that had been pointing… began to move slowly, like the hand of a weary clock.
It finally settled—now pointing… at Leo's painting.
His melted, distorted mask.
"Leo…" Noor whispered, looking at him.
He understood immediately.
He looked at his warped painting, then at me. I saw the conflict in his eyes—the hesitation to offer his own sacrifice.
But I saw something else too.
Understanding.
He had grasped the rules of the new game.
'Is this really the solution?' I thought, my heart racing.
'Is facing your truth… the only way out?'
I had made my offering.
And now… the others had to decide if they were willing to pay the price.
After my confession, an even heavier silence fell over the corridor.
A silent bomb had gone off, and everyone was still staring at its scattered fragments—now reflected on my once-empty canvas.
Leo, Noor, and Sam… were confused.
How could they understand a crisis of identity when all they cared about was survival?
Then, as if delivering the verdict of an unseen judge, the little girl's hand moved again.
It stopped pointing at the empty space where I had stood, and slowly—like the ticking of a clock—settled on the painting of Leonard von Falkenhayn.
That horrifying painting showing his face melting like wax, revealing gray bone beneath.
Leo slowly turned toward his painting, his face pale as a ghost.
I saw the conflict in his blue eyes. The pride of a leader clashing with the painful truth screaming from that image.
His injured arm was still bleeding, but the physical pain had clearly become nothing more than background noise compared to this psychological weight.
"Leo…" Noor whispered, her hand reaching toward him, as if trying to stop him from approaching the mirror of his distorted soul.
But he didn't look at her.
He was facing himself.
"Is… this what you did, Lester?"
Leo finally asked, his voice hoarse, his eyes fixed on the painting. "All I have to do is confess to it?"
"I didn't confess to the painting, Captain," I said calmly.
"I confessed to myself… out loud. And it seems this place values truth—no matter how pathetic it is."
"….."
Another long silence.
Leo was fighting a violent internal battle. I saw his jaw tighten, his good hand clench until the knuckles turned white.
'He's fighting,' I thought. 'Fighting his pride, his fear… every wall he built around his inner fortress.'
Then, very slowly—as if carrying the weight of the entire world on his shoulders—Leonard von Falkenhayn began walking toward his painting.
Each step seemed to demand immense effort.
He stood before his melting reflection—that horrifying face representing every failure he had ever felt. For a moment, it looked like he might turn and run.
But he didn't.
He closed his eyes, took a deep, trembling breath, then began to speak—his voice low, yet carrying unexpected strength.
"I… am not a failure because I make mistakes," he said, the words coming slowly, like heavy stones lifted from his chest.
"I am a failure… because I stopped trying long ago. Because I let others' expectations—my father's expectations—crush what I truly wanted."
He paused, swallowing hard.
"I've always… hated this name, 'von Falkenhayn.' I hated its weight. Its responsibilities. I hated always being watched… always being expected to be perfect."
He opened his eyes and looked directly at his melting face.
"But the truth is… I'm not a fortress. I'm just… a scared person."
"Afraid of failure. Afraid of disappointing those who believed in me. And more than anything… afraid of being nothing more than a pale copy of my father—the man I could never satisfy."
His voice trembled now—not from fear, but from the weight of confession.
Repression… I guess that's what they call it, I thought.
Even a great leader needs a therapy session.
"Yes… I hate my father," he finally said, as if a dam had broken.
"I hate what he did to me—what he turned me into. And I hate myself even more for allowing it. For giving up. For stopping the fight for what I believed in, and settling for wearing this damned mask of cold control… while inside… I was melting, just like this image."
You fear what you hate.
Our dear leader is more poetic than I thought.
The moment he finished speaking—the moment he confessed that painful truth he had carried for years—something incredible happened.
"Whooosh!!"
The melting face in Leo's painting… stopped melting.
The peeling ceased.
The exposed gray bones slowly disappeared, as if an unseen hand were healing the wounds. The face was no longer distorted or terrifying.
Instead, it settled into the image of a young man—his face marked by exhaustion and sorrow, but his eyes…
His eyes were clear. Steady.
It wasn't the face of an invincible hero.
It was simply… the face of a human being—with all its weakness and strength.
No matter his role as a protagonist… he was still human after all.
Leo stared at his transformed painting, his eyes filled with shock, disbelief… and a faint trace of relief.
Then, just as with my painting, the little girl's hand moved again.
This time, it no longer pointed at Leo.
Instead, it slowly and firmly pointed toward… Noor Akim's painting.
The one that showed her terrified face, frozen in a silent scream.
We all turned toward Noor.
She was staring at her painting… then at us, her eyes wide.
It was her turn.