The air within the parlor grew thick and heavy as the last candle sputtered, its violet flame dimming until the room was submerged in a deep, shadowed twilight. Hellino stood before the table, the golden eyes of Lutife Sour reflecting the flickering light like twin pools of dormant oil. The decision had been made, the logic of Betron Dode serving as an iron anchor against the Commander's inner turmoil.
"The terms are accepted," Hellino said, his voice ringing with a cold, hollow resonance that bounced off the damp stone walls. "But there is a condition to the transformation. The phantom identity you create must possess a mechanism of recognition. When I take this new form, I must be able to switch back, or at least project a trace of my true self, so that when Hannah McKay sees me, she knows exactly who stands before her. She must be able to identify me as Hellino, regardless of the face I wear."
