The air in the archive room seemed frozen. Dim light cast mottled shadows in the corners, and the silence was so complete that even a breath felt like an intrusion. Ethan leaned back against the chair, unconsciously spinning his "Dreamhunter" in his hand, yet his gaze kept returning to the old photograph. The figure in the photo—the back turned toward him—was unnervingly familiar. Every posture, every line, almost perfectly overlapped with the "friend" in his memory, as if time had warped, and reality and recollection converged in that instant.
His fingertips grew cold, tapping erratically on the desk. Inner turmoil churned, yet he masked it with a joke: "Relax… if this really involves someone I know, I'll be the first to report them… and maybe claim the reward while I'm at it."
But the laughter sounded hollow in the empty archive, stretched and distorted by echoes, ultimately dissolving into a bone-chilling solitude. Ethan closed his eyes, trying to convince himself it was merely a coincidence—a terrifying coincidence, but still just coincidence.
He recalled that night—the ache in his chest, the icy sting of the blade piercing his soul, and the cold, indifferent expression of that figure before it vanished into darkness. The pain surged up from his core again, forcing him to grip the "Dreamhunter" tightly, as if holding onto a fragment of safety.
Silas's voice cut through from beside him, sharp and unyielding: "Ethan. If you find anything… don't hide it."
Ethan's eyes snapped open, meeting Silas's piercing gaze. That look was like a blade cutting straight into his heart. He swallowed and forced a smile: "Of course, of course—I wouldn't hide anything."
Yet when his eyes fell again upon the photograph, his throat went dry. He could no longer mask the tremor in his chest. That figure in the photo was no stranger—it was the person he had once trusted most. The one who had left a deep mark on his life, only to drive a knife into his chest at the critical moment, pushing him toward death.
Ethan felt his heart gripped by a cold hand; his blood seemed to freeze instantly. He clenched his fists, knuckles whitening, as whispers drifted in his ears:
"Betrayal… never disappears…"
Scenes from the past flashed through his mind: streets they had walked together, the countless moments of trust and reliance, the icy blade, and the loneliness and darkness that followed. Every memory pierced him like a sharp spike.
Ethan slowly lowered his head, biting his lower lip, his voice low and hoarse: "No… this can't just be a coincidence… he… he's been behind it all along…"
The ink mark on his chest pulsed faintly, as if sensing the truth about to be unveiled. Ethan realized this was not merely an investigation, nor simply a pursuit of the Nightmare's truth—he would have to confront the enemy he knew best, the one he had once held closest.
His fingers instinctively traced the body of his "Dreamhunter." The cold metal sparked a clarity in his mind, a sobering chill. Ethan closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, pushing the fear back into the depths of his heart, muttering: "Fine… if fate wants me to face him, then I must see clearly… no matter the cost."
The archive lights flickered, shadows twisting slowly on the walls. The figure in the photograph seemed to watch him as well, a reminder that the abyss of the Nightmare lay not just in Phantom Dream Town, but also in the softest, most vulnerable corners of his own heart.
Ethan slowly lifted his head, his gaze cold and resolute. He knew now—the true nightmare was only just beginning.