“You looked into my abyss, Ezra. It smiled.”

His breath catches. His thoughts fracture.

Ezra, the great mentalist—the man who once unraveled criminals with a glance—now claws at the seams of his own identity. He reaches again for his totem.

Flip. Catch. Look.

Nothing.

The coin melts into mercury, slips through his fingers like guilt.
The ground beneath his feet is now a library—his own mind’s archive—but the books scream when opened. Facts rewritten. Memories rearranged. Everything has Livia’s signature written in crimson ink.

One shelf holds journals with titles like:

• "Moments You Thought Were Yours"

• "Dreams She Gave You"

• "Every Lie You’ve Ever Believed, Now a Nursery Rhyme"

He runs.

But he cannot escape the stage, because the curtains now fall from the sky itself.

Cut to the real world.

The audience still watches, entranced by the “act.” They think it’s all drama. Theater. Magic.

Only Alden shifts slightly in his seat, eyes narrowing—not fooled, but not yet ready to interfere. He senses it. The shift. The war.

Livia floats above the stage now, or perhaps it’s only the illusion of it, her voice dripping with gentleness crueler than violence.

“Ezra... do you still believe you’re the one in control?”

He doesn’t answer. His mind is fraying.

He sees himself in the crowd, whispering betrayals into his own ear.
He sees a world where he never existed, and everyone is happier.

He sees Livia taking his hand and saying:

“You could end this. Just bow.”

He falls to one knee—not out of choice, but necessity. But he does not bow.

Not yet.

His voice returns, hoarse, cracked, but laced with fury.

“You want my crown? Then rip it from a king who still breathes.”

And suddenly, just as the audience gasps at the illusion of fire blooming behind them, Ezra lunges forward—back into the fight.

“You thought you came to watch the show. But darling—
You’re the performance.”

Livia’s whisper still hangs in the air as the final act begins.

Ezra stands, trembling. His illusions fray at the edges. He tries once more—summons a cathedral of mirrors, each reflecting a version of himself: triumphant, composed, untouched.

But Livia walks through them like smoke, her smile unchanged.

Each mirror shatters as she passes.
Each version of him falls to his knees.

And when she reaches the real Ezra—what’s left of him—she leans close, close enough that even the audience feels the intimacy.

“I see you,” she says.
“Even you can’t lie to yourself in my circus.”

The lights go out. Silence falls.

Then—

A single spotlight.

Ezra, center stage. Alone.

He’s not bound. Not gagged.
But everyone feels his helplessness.
The illusion is gone. This is real. This is raw.

He tries to speak, but all that comes out is:

“Who… am I?”

Livia descends behind him, her hand resting gently on his shoulder.
A gesture not of dominance—but deliverance.

“You’re still becoming.”

The curtain falls. The act ends.

But not the story.

Because just before darkness claims the stage, Ezra does the unthinkable.

He turns—
Faces her—
And bows.

Not for applause.
Not in defeat.

But because something within him finally broke, and in the fracture, he saw truth.

Off-stage, Alden exhales sharply, the first sign of emotion all night.
The Hollow King has begun to rise.
And Livia… Livia smiles like a mother watching a monster take its first breath.