Yevian lay flat on his back, the ceiling dissolved into darkness above him, as if the room had no edges—no world beyond it. Only the paper in his hands existed.
Thin lines clawed across the page, linking words, circling truths, choking them into meaning.
ANOMALY = NOT RANDOM
A line dragged downward.
PATTERNED. INTENTIONAL.
Another, sharper, pressed harder—as if he'd carved it.
FATHER = NOT ACCIDENT
His fingers tightened.
The ink there was heavier, rewritten, underlined, stabbed through.
CONNECTED. HAS TO BE.
He turned his head slightly, eyes burning but wide, tracing the web again. Every note fed into the same center, a shape he couldn't yet see but could feel tightening.
NOT A THING. A PERSON?
The question mark was almost torn through the page.
If it was a person, then it could hide. Plan. Choose.
That meant—
Another note, boxed in, suffocating itself:
OTHERS WILL BE LOOKING.
His chest rose slower now. Controlled. Calculating.
