The old Lecture Hall was a cavernous space, rows of tiered wooden benches descending towards a large, empty stage. A single spotlight illuminated a grand, old-fashioned blackboard standing on an easel at the center of the stage. The blackboard was pristine, completely blank, a stark canvas awaiting inscription.
Mira clutched the vintage fountain pen, its cool weight in her hand. The projected message above the blackboard read:
"Expression, Mira, reveals the self. Mark your presence. Leave your imprint. A truth, a question, a path. Use the instrument provided. Your insight is awaited."
Her heart pounded. A truth? A question? What did he want from her? He knew so much about her. He had dissected her online presence, invaded her privacy, analyzed her reactions. What more could she possibly reveal?
She approached the blackboard, the scent of chalk dust faintly in the air. The blankness was intimidating. This wasn't a puzzle with a single right answer; it was a psychological test, a demand for introspection, for a confession of sorts.
She thought about everything: the fear, the anger, the confusion, the lingering question of why. She thought about Link, the analyst, the puppeteer.
Slowly, deliberately, she uncapped the fountain pen. It was filled with a rich, dark blue ink. She pressed the nib to the blackboard. It wasn't slate; it was a specially prepared surface that accepted ink, allowing for a permanent mark.
What truth could she offer him? Her fear? Her defiance?
Her hand, surprisingly steady, began to write. She chose her words carefully, each stroke of the pen precise and firm. She wrote:
"What is your hypothesis, Link?"
She didn't write her name. She didn't write a plea. She turned his own analytical language back on him, challenging his methods, demanding an explanation for his twisted "experiment." It was a question that cut to the core of his actions, an attempt to understand the motive behind the madness.
As the last word was inscribed, a faint hum filled the hall. The projected message above the blackboard dissolved, replaced by a single, almost imperceptible symbol glowing in the center of her written question: a tiny, stylized eye, identical to the one on the atlas cover. It pulsed softly, like a heartbeat.
Then, from the speakers hidden throughout the hall, Link's distorted voice returned, a tone Mira couldn't quite decipher – surprise? Amusement? Satisfaction?
"An excellent question, Mira," he said, the words echoing around her. "And a valid one. Your insight is... noted. Your path now lies in the Curator's Private Study. The door will now be accessible. My hypothesis, Mira, is complex. And its proof requires... closer observation."
The final words sent a chill down her spine. "Closer observation." It sounded ominous, a promise of a more intimate, perhaps even physical, phase of his game. He had acknowledged her question, but not answered it. Instead, he had raised the stakes.