Deep inside an abandoned dream-cloister of Penacony. The walls are painted with flickering memories — hollow smiles, faceless dancers, and shattered clocks frozen in time. The room is quiet, dust suspended midair like ash in zero gravity. Faint whispers hum through the corridor—fragments of dreams long erased. Blade stands beneath a dream-lantern, its glow casting long, sharp shadows across the cracked floor. His coat hangs still. Blood still dries on the edge of his blade. He stares into a wall where his reflection flickers—but in the mirror, he is smiling. His real face? Emotionless. Then: the silence breaks. Footsteps. Measured. Soft. Too polite for this place. Sunday enters, his ever-present smile untouched by the decay around him. No dust lands on his clothes. No shadow ever seems to cling to him. Blade doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak yet. ⸻ Sunday (gently): “You always find the places the world forgets. Were you hoping it would forget you, too?” Blade (still staring at the false reflection): “I don’t belong in memories. I’m what they leave behind.” Sunday (tilting his head): “And yet… you remain. Like a scar even dreams can’t heal.”