The office was dim, quiet—its gray corners just beginning to hold warmth again. The red flower sat on George's desk like a silent witness, the only spot of color in a monochrome world.
George paced once, then settled behind the desk. He checked the system's internal time. 9:59 AM.
A breath in. A breath out. Then—three soft knocks.
"Come in," he said.
Leilah Voss stepped in with careful, measured steps. Pale, elegant, with a flickering sharpness in her eyes that never quite settled. Her silver pendant pulsed faintly, keeping time with something that wasn't her heart.
She didn't hesitate.
She didn't comment on his face.
She didn't seem to notice he wasn't the same man.
"Morning,"
she said, her voice more fragile than her body let on.
She sat down without asking.
George nodded once.
"How are things since our last session?"
"I started watching myself back," she said,
eyes unfocused
"In real time. Like I'm being edited live. Sometimes I hear myself laugh and it's not… me. Not even close."
She paused, voice going smaller.
"He's not just copying anymore. He's rehearsing me."
George's hand tightened around the edge of the desk.
The system buzzed to life in the back of his mind.
[NEW ENTITY DETECTED: "Eidolon-Watcher"]
Complexity: HIGH
Understanding: INSUFFICIENT
RECORDING: DENIED]
[Eidolon Watcher]
As per the the filea bieng who parasite in biengs and slowly start to take over them
Seeing this george understood if he want to take someones record he has to have basic understanding of them and his record must spread through them
Of course.
Still too soon.
He activated Serene Beat.
The pulse spread invisibly—through the desk, the floor, the air. A psychic rhythm syncing gently with her mind like a metronome for the soul.
Leilah's shoulders relaxed. Her hands unclenched.
"I always forget how it feels in here," she whispered. "Like I'm whole. Like I'm... myself."
George didn't smile. "Because in here, you are. But it won't last."
She looked up, startled.
He met her eyes. Calm. Honest.
"This isn't healing. It's a pause button. A lie that lets you breathe."
Her jaw tensed.
"So what, it's fake?"
"No. But it's borrowed. You don't win in here, Leilah. You win when you leave—and still remember who you are."
A silence bloomed.
Then: "I don't know how."
Hiding his trembling hand in pocket George rose from his chair and slowly walked around the desk.
"You said he rehearses you," he said.
"But you're rehearsing too, aren't you? Every day. Every word. So nobody sees how scared you really are."
Her eyes welled—immediate, involuntary.
"That's not fair."
"It's not meant to be. Healing never is."
He knelt beside her—not touching her—but letting the pulse of Serene Beat settle just beneath her skin No force Just presence
as he slowly transfered his [RECORD] to her through his serene beat she recieving
"When you leave this room, it's going to come back."
She nodded slowly. "I know."
"It will test you. Try to wear your face better than you do."
"I know."
He looked at her. "Will you let it?"
She shook her head—but not with strength.
With grief.
Because she knew the real battle hadn't started.
Because for once, someone had told her the truth: This wouldn't get easier. She had to change to survive.
George stood, the system still humming in the background.
[UNDERSTANDING LEVEL: 78%]
[Recording: DENIED]
Close—but not enough.
He offered his final words as the session ended:
"Every time you choose yourself—even if it's only for a second—you make it weaker."
She didn't answer.
She just rose, slowly, and walked to the door.
But before she left, she turned back.
"If I forget who I am again out there…"
She trailed off.
George answered anyway.
"Then come back. And we'll try again."
She gave the ghost of a nod.
Then stepped out into the city of grayscale shadows—where Serene Beat could no longer follow
---
The door closed softly behind Leilah.
George stood in the quiet that followed and sighed as his shoulder dropped, facing the red flower on his desk. Its petals still pulsed with faint color—like breath. The rest of the office was sterile, stripped of hue, as though existence were waiting for permission to exist.
When he looked closer he saw feint brown colour on the desk like sprinkled dust
He touched the desk beside the flower.
> [RECORD SPREAD: 0.6%]
Object: Desk Surface
COLOR: Partial (Low Saturation)]
A faint wash of red trailed from the edge of the flower onto the desk—thin as a vein, slow as erosion.
This is erosion of record where everything that come in contact with his record will be paratised and spread like a virus
Only what George had Recorded could hold color.
And his Record spread like ink in cold water—tangible, karmic, alive, but never quick.
Just for him to see the beauty of the world again
----------
George stepped into the mirror-lined side room.
He had restored George Helel's original identity. And now, as he dressed, the man in the mirror looked back at him without flinching.
Coat. Gloves. Boots. A scarf—clean gray, stitched with faint white lines that shimmered just barely with color.
> [SYSTEM LOG:
Item: Scarf – Recorded
Source: Host Record
COLOR: Active (23% Saturation)]
George ran his fingers down the edge of the cloth which gaining colour through the record that passively garnered from his presence alone
"It's slow," he muttered. "But it's mine."
---
He descended to the ground floor, past dark glass walls and a locked reception desk. The air buzzed faintly with dormant sigils and neutral-tone lighting.
At the exit, he paused.
The threshold mattered.
Because everything beyond it had not yet been Recorded.
Which meant it would be colorless.
He pushed the door open.
And stepped into Nivalis.
---
⟡
The city bloomed—loud, towering, and still utterly gray.
Massive arcologies stretched upward into a sky choked with silver fog and flickering aerial runes. Drones whirred by in traffic lanes made of light. Neon signs blinked in every direction, but to George's eyes they were only gradients of white and black.
Everything had a Record.
But none of it belonged to him.
Not yet.
He walked.
People passed. Buildings loomed. But nothing glowed.
Until—
He paused beside a crumbling wall where a single vine had taken root in a metal crack. It twitched slightly in the breeze.
George crouched down and touched the the vine and passed his record
Suddenly his head throbbed as he stopped transferring the record
'so this is my limit '
George muttered as he rubbed his head with his hand
And at the edge of the vine—a faint green shimmer.
> [RECORD SPREAD DETECTED]
Origin: Host
Object: Urban Plantlife
COLOR: Enabled (30%)]
His Record had touched the soil just beneath his building. It had reached this root system.
The world didn't come alive because it was meaningful.
It came alive because he made it his.
He crouched, brushing the edge of the vine with a gloved finger.
And slowly, another leaf began to gain pigment.
Not emotion.
Not memory.
Just power—his Record claiming what it touched even with his skull splitting headache just for him to savor the beauty of the vine
The city was vast.
And it didn't care who he was.
But piece by piece, it would be his.
Not through conquest.
Through [RECORD]
---