The stage goes dark. A single spotlight lingers on Livia as she curtsies deeply, her crimson hair cascading like a velvet curtain of its own.

"And so, dear guests—tonight’s spectacle ends."
"You may wake up now… if you still remember how."

Laughter erupts, then applause. The crowd rises, thrilled, unsettled, enchanted.

But behind the stage, Ezra doesn’t move.
He sits hunched in the shadows, gripping his silver coin. The laughter echoes too loud in his skull, bouncing off invisible walls.

He blinks. Once. Twice.
The circus hasn’t let him go.

“Why... can’t I leave?” he murmurs.

From somewhere in the dark, an old tune begins to play again.
The game may be over—but the Queen hasn’t said he’s free.

Behind him, Livia’s voice floats like incense smoke:

“The door is open, Ezra…”
“But you’ll have to remember where it is.”

When he turns, she's gone.
Only the scent of roses and smoke remain.

The lights dim, but the silence roars.

Ezra kneels center stage, his once-impeccable suit now torn, stained with sweat, blood, and hubris. The silver totem in his trembling hand—his last tether to reason—lies shattered beside him, its spin long ceased.

Livia looms above him, a silhouette of velvet and ruin, her gaze both judge and salvation.

His voice cracks, hoarse from the strain of resisting her illusions.

“I thought I could tame the Queen of Horror…” he whispers. “But you devoured me whole.”

Livia slowly descends the stage steps, her presence drowning the space in velvet gravity. She crouches before him, gloved fingers lifting his chin. Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes burn with something holy. Or unholy.

“And now?” she asks.

“Now…” Ezra swallows hard, tears falling. “Now I see the truth. Pride was my throne. And it made me blind.”

Her lips curl.

“Are you ready, Ezra?”

His breath hitches.

“I have nothing left but this ruin. Take it. Make it yours.”

She rises, arms outstretched, the theater's chandeliers flickering like dying stars.

“Confess.”

“I am Pride incarnate. And I beg to be unmade.”

“Repent.”

“Strip me bare. I offer all—my mind, my soul, my name.”

“Reign.”

The world erupts.

A crown of shadow slams down from the rafters, not worn but embedded into Ezra’s very being. Screams—his own—rip through the theater, but they twist into laughter, divine and monstrous.

His body arches, suspended mid-air. Ribbons of illusion, regret, and revelation coil around him like smoke made sentient. And then—

Silence.

Ezra collapses to the floor, no longer gasping. Just… calm.

The Hollow King opens his eyes.

Where once they gleamed with control and calculation, now they shine with haunting clarity—and eternal allegiance.

Livia watches, a soft whisper only he can hear:

“Welcome home, my Apostle.”

From the crowd, Alden’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t clap. He simply watches, one hand curled tightly into a fist.