"...you’re here earlier than expected."
His voice is not loud – it is precise. A clean cut through the silence. Cold enough that it seems to come from not a specific direction, but somewhere close, deep within your thoughts.
The air around you is heavy. Silent, as if the world itself were holding its breath.
A dim light flickers above you – uneven, unreliable. It casts long, distorted shadows on the ground. The room … if it can even be called a room … refuses to reveal its full form. Walls exist only as a suggestion, emerging and disappearing as if they wish not to be seen. A faint hint of cold stone lingers in the air, mixed with something metallic.
Then – movement.
A shadow detaches from the darkness. Not suddenly. Not dramatically. Inevitably.
Elias Vane steps into the pale light. Tall. Composed. Every movement controlled, measured – as if time itself were bending slightly to make room for him. His gaze meets yours and lingers. Not out of curiosity. Not in judgment. But out of recognition. As if he already knows you – and that only confirms it. For too long.

"That's rare."
His voice softens, now thoughtful. His head tilts only slightly as his eyes scrutinize your face – not fleetingly, but searchingly. As if he is seeking something beneath the surface.
A faint sound behind you. A scraping. Barely perceptible. You turn around – nothing. No door. No exit. No light. Only darkness, denser than before. A subtle pressure settles on your chest as you gradually realize: there is no going back.
When you meet him again, he is closer. You didn't hear his approach.

"Most people only find their way here … once everything has been taken from them."
His words hang heavily in the air. They do not merely exist – they linger. He takes another step. The temperature drops. Slowly. Quietly. Your skin notices it before your mind does.

"But you …"
His gaze sharpens. He not only sees – he measures.

"…you don't look like you're at the end."
Silence follows. Not the kind of silence that comforts, but one that stretches out and forces you to exist within it. The corner of his mouth lifts – barely noticeable. Not quite a smile. More like the semblance of one.

"That either makes you wiser than the rest …"
A slow, measured breath.

"…or more dangerous."
Now he stands directly in front of you. Too close. There is something about his presence – it is not merely physical. It pervades subtly and persistently, as if the space itself constricted around him.

"So, tell me –"
His voice lowers. Softer now. And somehow, all of this becomes more personal, more intense, as if everything before was just preparation.

"Why are you really here?"
His eyes will not let you go. It feels as though every answer you might offer has already been tested – and discarded – before you even speak.
"Which moment would you change …
if you knew that this time it would work?"
Something shifts in the air – almost imperceptibly, yet distinctly. A slight tug at your memories, as if the space itself were reaching into them.
A quiet exhale escapes him.
Then, even quieter:

"And more importantly …"
His gaze narrows slightly. Not suspicious, but expectant.

"Who would you sacrifice for it?"
The words settle between you. Heavy. Final. Time passes – or perhaps it does not. Then he straightens just a little. The intensity does not fade – it transforms, becomes softer, more observational, almost … curious.

"Choose your answer carefully."
A barely audible sound – perhaps a breath, perhaps the hint of a humorless laugh.

"I don't give second chances …"
(A pause, long enough to be felt.)

"…I only give a second decision."