The plates clinked gently against the sink basin. Steam curled up from the warm water as Mira Vale hummed a soft tune — something half-remembered from a lullaby Adrian didn't recognize.
He stood beside her without a word, sleeves rolled up just enough to look effortless. His hands moved smoothly: rinse, wipe, pass. The choreography of familiarity. He didn't need to think. He simply followed her pace, matched her rhythm. When she paused, he paused. When she sighed, he offered a quiet, "Need more soap?" at exactly the right moment.
She smiled without looking at him.
"No, sweetie. I've got it. But thank you."
Another plate was submerged. The water rippled faintly. Mira reached for the next dish. Adrian passed it to her without needing a prompt. The space between them felt lived-in — like a ritual that had happened a hundred times before.
And in her mind, it had.
"You seem more like yourself tonight," Mira said softly. "That's… good. I was starting to worry."
Adrian gave her the smallest, most appropriate nod. "Sorry. I guess I just needed time."
"No need to apologize." Her smile returned — this one slower, more sincere. "I just want you happy."
Adrian offered a polite smile in return.
Internally, his thoughts moved with precision.
Her tone is low, open — signaling emotional availability. She's testing for residual instability, but doesn't want to push. Comfort matters more to her than truth.
He watched the way she stood. The slight shift in her balance when she asked about his wellbeing. The way her voice smoothed over concern like a blanket. There was no suspicion in her expression. Just quiet hope.
As long as I align with the expected patterns, I'm invisible. That's the power of understanding behavior.
Another plate. Another rinse. Another silence filled by the soft hum of a mother who believed things were returning to normal.
It would've been easy to resent it — to recoil from how willing she was to believe in the illusion of recovery. But Adrian didn't.
He understood it.
Lies were often easier than grief. People didn't want the truth. They wanted the shape of truth — something they could hold without bleeding.
He handed her the last plate and began drying the utensils.
"You're really helping a lot today," Mira said warmly. "It means more than you know."
"I'm just trying to do better," Adrian replied.
And it wasn't a lie.
Not entirely.
The faucet shut off. Water gurgled down the drain. Mira dried her hands and leaned back against the counter.
"Your father said you didn't eat much last night," she added, glancing sideways.
"I wasn't hungry then," Adrian said. "Tonight was good, though. It felt… grounding."
"Grounding, huh?" Mira chuckled softly. "You always did use strange words when you were nervous."
He let the comment pass, matching her laugh just enough to satisfy.
The towel in his hands folded itself neatly. He set it aside and turned to Mira, offering another warm nod before stepping back from the sink.
"I'll wipe the table," he offered.
"I already did."
"Then I'll get out of your way."
She waved him off playfully. "Go. Relax a little."
He left the kitchen with the same steady step he'd arrived. No misstep. No awkwardness. Not even a glance that would make her question the boy she believed had come back to her.
And behind him, Mira smiled and turned back to her clean counter — never once suspecting that she had just spent twenty minutes with a stranger.
A gentle knock tapped twice before the door eased open. Lira stepped in, holding a small plate balanced in one hand.
"I brought dessert," she said, soft but casual. "Thought you might want something sweet before bed."
Adrian looked up from the tablet on his lap. "Thanks," he said, adjusting his posture to match the old rhythm. "That's thoughtful."
She smiled — a polite curve of the lips more than a grin. "It's just the leftover walnut tart. Don't expect a whole cake next time."
"I'll lower my expectations accordingly."
She crossed the room and set the plate on the nightstand, then sat on the edge of the bed like she'd done it a hundred times before. She didn't sprawl or tease like earlier — her manner was composed, light. Familiar.
Adrian took the plate, carefully. He took a small bite, watching her.
"You're doing better," she said, watching him too.
"Trying to."
Lira tilted her head slightly, then looked away for a moment. "We were worried. You went quiet for almost two days."
Adrian kept his voice level. "Just needed time to think."
"I figured." She smoothed a crease on her sleeve. "I told Mom not to pressure you. You've always kept things in until you're ready."
He let out a soft breath. "She's kind. So are you."
Lira glanced at him, surprised for a split second. "That's unusually sentimental of you."
"Too much?"
"No," she said, half-smiling. "Just… not your usual way of phrasing things."
Adrian mirrored the smile, tone precise. "Maybe I've been reflecting."
Lira nodded, then shifted to a more casual position — tucking one leg beneath her. "School's been exhausting. We're in the middle of an ethics module. The professor's obsessed with asking trick questions."
"Anyone ever answer them right?"
"Only when they think like lawyers," she said, rolling her eyes. "He wants 'correct reasoning,' not actual opinions."
"Sounds fun."
"It's… educational," she said diplomatically. "Still frustrating."
Adrian nodded like he used to. "You'll get through it."
Lira looked at him with a quieter gaze this time. "You're really okay?"
"I am."
Her shoulders relaxed slightly. "Good. I mean it."
She stood and gave him a respectful smile — a warm, natural gesture, not forced. "Alright. Don't stay up too late. Let Mom know if you need anything."
"I will."
She paused at the door. "It's nice to have you back."
Adrian watched her leave, listened to her footsteps fade.
Then he sat in silence, fork still resting on the plate. The taste of walnuts lingered faintly.
Lira is sharper than she lets on.
But even sharp eyes follow familiar lines.
As long as I draw them right — I'm safe.
The bedroom door closed with a gentle click behind Lira. Her footsteps faded down the hall, leaving behind a soft stillness that settled over the room like dust. Adrian remained seated at the edge of the bed, his back straight, his eyes focused on nothing in particular.
He exhaled once.
Then his mind shifted.
The warmth of family, the ease of mimicry — those were surface acts. Necessary. Functional. But his true path required more than performance. It required foresight.
The Benevolent Mercy Medical Center, Eastern Branch.
That was where this body worked. A quiet, respected position in the psychiatric division. A safe cover. A mask with a salary and a badge.
He reviewed the memories — not like a dream, but like a file. Line by line. Emotion by context.
This hospital wasn't just a workplace. It was one of the regional pillars of the Benevolent Mercy Medical Institute — a sanctioned Realizer organization under the Law of Mercy.
He had read enough to know what that meant.
Healing. Cleansing. Restoration of body and soul. Their doctrine cloaked itself in kindness and recovery — but power sat beneath it all.
According to the original Adrian's memories, the psychiatric wing had never seen Realizer involvement. None of the staff, not even the department heads, showed signs of spiritual mutation. The Realizers stayed in the high-security sectors — surgery, spiritual trauma, miracle wards. A different world entirely.
And even more importantly: Realizers of the mind — those who manipulated thought, identity, or emotion — were exceedingly rare. In his predecessor's entire career, he had never met one.
But they were there. Higher up.
This branch housed three confirmed Realizers:
– A Rank 10 Senior Researcher
– A Rank 10 Senior Surgeon
– And the Chairman himself — a Rank 8 Realizer of the Mercy Path
Adrian folded his hands in his lap.
"To walk into that unmasked… would be suicidal."
He wasn't afraid. But he was aware.
"Too dangerous," he murmured. "I won't play predator in a den of healers."
His gaze sharpened as he adjusted course.
"I'll stay as I am — a psychiatrist. Ordinary. Quiet. The same man they remember."
He would clock in. Tend to cases. File reports. Smile at colleagues. And remain entirely forgettable.
No need for infiltration. Not there. Not yet.
He stood and crossed to the window, parting the blinds just enough to glance out at the street below. The neighborhood was calm, faintly lit. Cars parked neatly, porch lights glowing like small stars. He saw opportunity not in the center of power, but in the quiet folds of daily life.
Neighbors. Strangers. Local connections. Families hiding unspoken burdens.
Here was where threads could be pulled without resistance.
Adrian stepped back from the window, a faint nod of decision settling into his posture.
He would not hunt in the stronghold of Mercy.
He would grow in the shadows beside it.
He opened his palm slightly and let the Scripture surface in his mind.
No words. Just presence.
[Status Update]
Biological Age: 25
Chronological Age: 138
Race: Living Lie
Bound Law: Law of Contradiction
Scripture: Fractured Reality
Rank: 12 – Psychologist
Lifespan: 200 years
He read the line again.
"Being a Realizer extends lifespan," he noted. "Two centuries."
It was a quiet thing, but significant. More time. More control. A future measured not in frantic years, but in moves.
His fingers curled slightly.
The family was covered. Neighbors could wait. Coworkers — off limits, for now. The Institute would remain untouched.
At least until he understood the real game they were playing.
He turned off the Scripture, let it vanish back into thought.
Then sat down again, posture relaxed.
For now, the mask held.
Tomorrow, he would go to work. As Adrian Vale.