George woke up with weary eyes and made his way to the kitchen, preparing himself a cup of coffee.
The weight of yesterday's meeting still clung to his mind like a stone—he had no idea what to do next.
The only thing he could do now was spread his Record and hope it would help.
With everything that had happened, he'd even forgotten to transfer his Record to Victor.
As the coffee brewed, George accessed the Weblink, searching for any updates related to the meeting.
Just as he expected, there was nothing. Only the usual daily noise—reports of ignorance and chaos.
But then, as he scrolled, one headline caught his attention.
"Oh… that's interesting," he muttered.
A post from just an hour ago, bold and ominous, read:
"STRIKER ON RAMPAGE."
George leaned in.
Striker—an infamous backstreet legend known for tearing through crime syndicates across the capital, Nivalis.
He wasn't seen as a hero. In the public eye, he was clearly a villain.
Wherever Striker went, only corpses remained.
George sipped his coffee, eyes scanning the report with a growing sense of curiosity.
According to Weblink, last night's rampage had left 48 people dead.
Striker's official kill count now stood at 220—though most believed the real number was far higher.
Then, a grainy surveillance image surfaced in the article:
Striker, clad in a black skull mask, a tight-fitting black T-shirt, and matching tactical pants.
Ding-dong.
He paused, blinking at the sudden sound, then turned to glance at the digital clock on the wall.
7:30 AM.
He furrowed his brow. Who the hell visits at this hour?
No appointments. No scheduled therapy till 10.30 And it is too early for victor to arrive
Still holding the half-full mug, George made his way toward the entrance, his bare feet soft against the cold, polished floor. As he passed the foyer, he casually extended a thread of his Record, brushing it along the wall's
The bell rang again.
Urgent.
George narrowed his eyes. Too early. Too insistent.
With a flick of his wrist, the security panel blinked to life beside the door. The camera feed showed a woman standing outside—hood drawn tight over her head, posture tense. Even through the grainy lens, George could see the faint tremble in her hands.
His heart sank.
He recognized her.
Leilah Voss.
And she looked terrified
George opened the door slowly, the soft hum of the mansion's locks disengaging. The morning air spilled in—cool, but charged with something more.
Leilah stumbled inside before he could speak, her breaths sharp and shallow, like she'd been running for hours. Her hood fell back, revealing disheveled hair matted to her forehead with sweat, and wild eyes that darted around the hallway as if the shadows might lunge at her.
He didn't flinch. "Come inside."
She nodded stiffly and stepped into the quiet sanctuary of the mansion. George led her into the lounge and gestured to the long leather couch. She hesitated, then sat—hands clutched in her lap, eyes fixed on the floor.
George pulled a chair across from her and sat down, calm and grounded.
"I need you to breathe,"
he said gently, his voice a tether. "You're safe now. No one's going to hurt you. Not even you."
As he spoke, he activated Serene Beat.
Though her mind began to calm, a lingering sensation still clung to her—a terrible feeling of having been replaced.
She shook her head, fists trembling. "No, you don't understand. I—I woke up last night and found claw marks on the wall. My wall. I don't remember doing anything, but my hands… they were covered in blood. And it wasn't mine."
George remained still. Her panic pulsed through the room like a wave, but he didn't let it touch him.
He watched her, eyes sharpening as he perceived the color in her body—still muted, except for a minuscule space his Record had already touched.
He leaned forward, voice low and steady.
"Then let's bring you back into control."
He didn't reach out with his hands, but with his presence. His words took on a rhythm, a cadence like a heartbeat.
"You are here. Right now. This room, this breath—they're yours. Nothing else gets to own them. Not fear. Not confusion. Not… whatever's hiding inside."
George stood and moved behind her chair, letting his voice carry over her like warm rain.
Leilah closed her eyes, guided by his tone. Her shoulders began to ease. The tremble in her hands softened.
"Let's take it step by step," he said softly. "I'll walk you through a short calibration. Not magic. Not exorcism. Just... alignment. Mind and memory."
She gave a small nod.
And so they began.
The session was quiet. Focused. George guided her through grounding exercises, then into a careful trace of her memories—watching for gaps, shadows, anomalies. Not with fear, but with practiced precision.
Throughout the process, George continued to transfer his Record into her. It wasn't without cost—his head began to spin, the effort pressing against the edges of his mind.
Minutes later, Leilah was breathing evenly. Not healed. Not safe. But steadier.
George returned to his chair, leaned back, and studied her carefully.
She was fully assimilated by his Record.
She was the first human he had ever seen fully colored—suffused with hues unlike anything since his arrival in this world.
Leilah opened her eyes.
George let his awareness slip inside himself.
His mental space opened before him, fragile and muted—like a once-bright sphere now sagging inward, a deflated soccer ball suspended in the void. Yet, even in its weariness, it held structure. This alone surprised him.
He hadn't expected entry to come so easily. Last time, it had resisted him—raw and chaotic, barely coherent. Now it was still, watchful.
Not fully restored, but not completely broken either.
As they spoke, George allowed his focus to drift toward her soul. He didn't force it—just let the tether of his attention graze its edges.
To his surprise, it yielded.
Her soul space unfolded like a blooming cosmos. A gentle pulse of starlight shimmered across its surface, radiating a silence that felt ancient, untouched.
Galaxies spun slowly in the dark, and threads of golden dust curled like whispered thoughts through the void, not in black and white but in its full glory
And then he saw it.
At the very center—calm, patient, and unblinking—was a single golden eye. It was vast and small all at once, suspended in impossible stillness. Its glow didn't blind, but it reached into something deeper, more essential.
George felt its presence before he fully grasped its meaning. It wasn't just an eye.
It was a watcher
Something holy had taken root in her soul—and it was awake.
And it is a mere fragment of Eidolon Watcher
----------------
[ ENTITY : "Eidolon-Watcher(fragment)"]
Complexity: HIGH
Understanding: sufficient
RECORDING: can be assessed]