It did feel odd— unnervingly so— that despite the jumble of memories refusing to take shape in his head, he was feeling calm. Too calm. Conversational, even. The figure across from him wore his mother's skin, a mockery he would normally have met with instant rage. On any other day, the usual him would have walked forward without hesitation, ripped that skin apart, and let his fury paint the rest.
But something held him back. Some buried instinct gnawed at him, whispering that every moment spent here was stolen, that lingering too long would cost him something greater. He felt the urgent need to leave, a pressure at the back of his mind reminding him that this place was no place to stay.
Sighing, he fixed his gaze on the creature. "If you continue wasting time, stripping away my memories piece by piece, do you truly believe you'll ever reach the point? Or are you only hoping I won't notice how thin your tricks have grown?"
