Not to the public.
To the ones still alive who remembered what real terror felt like—not just chaos, but the kind that rewrote silence into something heavy.
The cult?
That had been a smokescreen—a footnote.
And the girl—Pale Mirror—was never some prophet or divine voice. She wasn't meant to speak the truth.
She was a mirror.
And now, it had cracked.
Director Valcrest didn't move. Just watched the screen, calm, eyes unreadable as the pulse of the map flickered again.
That faint signature of something watching. Something brushing the edge of presence, like fingers trailing under the surface of still water.
He didn't speak right away.
Just waited.
Then, in a tone that didn't carry weight but still cut through the quiet, he muttered:
"Anger makes noise.... but that will not change anything."
And in the silence that followed, the world kept shifting underneath the surface, quiet, but steady. Like it wasn't done yet.
—
