The elevator doors opened with a soft chime. Adrian stepped into the corridor of the 25th floor — the Mental Health Ward. It smelled of antiseptic and faint lavender, the same way it always had in his memories… or rather, in the original Adrian's.
He walked forward calmly.
Two nurses at the front desk glanced up. One of them — tall, ponytailed, with a surgical mask tucked under her chin — smiled.
"Good morning, Doctor Vale."
The other followed quickly. "You're looking better today."
Their tone was light, but their eyes tracked him with more attention than he remembered from the man's memories. Curious warmth. A touch more familiarity.
Too much for someone who used to be invisible.
They're smiling wider. Shoulders relaxed. Voice pitch lowered slightly when they speak to me. That's rapport… but it's too fast. Too warm.
Adrian returned the smile perfectly. "I appreciate it. I'm feeling more like myself."
He continued down the corridor. Behind him, the nurses giggled softly to each other.
That wasn't normal.
More followed. One by one — nurses, assistants, even an admin from another wing — all offering smiles, greetings, good energy. A low, creeping thought stirred in the back of his mind. Something didn't fit.
In the original Adrian's memories, the staff had always been polite, but distant. Professional. He had never inspired this kind of warmth. Certainly not this much attention.
So what changed?
Adrian's eyes narrowed slightly as he walked.
Then the answer struck.
Passive Realizer traits.
The charm effect — subtle, subconscious — designed to warp emotional perception. A byproduct of embodying a Concept, especially one as paradoxical as Contradiction.
He exhaled softly. "Even when I act perfectly, something leaks through…"
No change in posture. No makeup cues. Not trying to flirt — just reacting.
It's me. The passive charm. It's leaking.
The original Adrian Vale was polite but forgettable — the sort of quiet staff member who barely made ripples in the hallway. Yet now…
That was the flaw of his path. His presence — sharpened by contradiction — radiated subtle force. Not enough to alarm, but enough to draw attention. The charm couldn't be suppressed fully
A mild inconvenience. Nothing he could control yet. But noted.
"Teach!"
The voice came from behind — energetic, too loud for the sterile air.
Adrian turned.
A young woman jogged up to him, long coat swaying, Blonde hair up in her usual loose bun. Her boots made sharp, deliberate sounds against the polished tile.
Lauren Cloud.
She had her white coat slung over one arm, loose blouse and slacks beneath. Smart eyes. Short hair curled behind her ears. She looked pleased — like someone returning to routine.
She had just finished her residency last year. Two years assisting the original Adrian, and now a full psychiatrist. His junior. His colleague. His… best friend.
Or so she believed.
In truth, the original Adrian had fallen for her — quietly, pathetically. He'd never said anything. Never acted. Just drove her home from drinks, smiled at her stories, and endured the ache of being invisible.
She slowed only once she was a step away. "You're early. That's rare."
Teasing tone. Chin tilted up — confident today. Slight lift at the corners of the mouth — no suspicion. Still sees me as him.
"I slept well for once," Adrian said. "Or at least, I didn't drown in coffee and paperwork."
She laughed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Glad you're not buried. I was starting to think you ghosted us."
Small hesitation before the joke. Testing the waters — but still smiling after. Trust level unchanged. Tone casual.
"Ghosting a place like this?" Adrian said with a smile. "That would be criminal."
Lauren gave him a light elbow nudge, then leaned forward slightly. "Still… you do feel different. Less faded. I don't know — more noticeable?"
Adrian tilted his head. "Noticeable how?"
She paused.
Breath held for half a second. Tongue pressed against the back of the teeth — searching for the right word, avoiding offense. She doesn't know what changed, only that something did.
"…Not in a bad way," she said. "Just… a little more magnetic?"
Adrian offered an apologetic shrug. "Maybe I finally got enough sleep to have a personality."
Lauren rolled her eyes. "God forbid."
She stepped back, checking the time. "I'll grab coffee before the patients start rolling in. Want your usual?"
He nodded. "Wouldn't dream of skipping it."
As she turned and jogged down the hallway, Adrian watched the sway of her coat — the confident rhythm of her stride, familiar and unchanged.
Still his junior. Still his "friend."
Still blind.
She doesn't suspect anything. Not really. But she noticed the difference. And if someone that close noticed... others might too.
He exhaled softly.
No point in continuing to mimic the old Adrian down to the smallest habit. Nobody cared that much about psychiatrists. If he started acting like a slightly newer version of himself — confident, composed, but not overtly altered — no one would challenge it.
Especially not in the mental health ward.
He turned toward his office. The hallway quieted behind him, and the weight of perception lifted. Only sterile walls and echoing steps remained.
The room welcomed him with indifferent silence. A simple desk in the center. Bookshelf to the left. A small couch for sessions, neatly upholstered in synthetic leather. White walls, blank window, a single coat rack. Spartan, forgettable.
It hadn't changed.
He stood for a moment just inside the doorway, letting his gaze sweep the space like a forensic lens. He didn't move — just observed. Every surface, every dust pattern, every absence.
Nothing felt disturbed.
That didn't mean it wasn't.
He walked to the desk and sat down. The chair creaked slightly. Familiar. Original Adrian had broken it in with years of passivity. Sitting here, hour after hour, writing reports no one read. Treating patients no one thanked him for. Fading into a routine he never challenged.
Adrian opened the drawer slowly.
Pens. A paperweight. An old badge clipped to a cracked lanyard. The ID showed a face nearly identical to his own, but the eyes were different — tired, soft, hopeful in a pathetic way.
Adrian set the badge down, then powered on the terminal.
It hummed to life. Password already input by biometric scan. He leaned back slightly, letting the machine run through its startup while his thoughts wandered to the night the original Adrian died.
A whisper. A paralysis. A voice like a scalpel through the spine.
And then: Go home. Kill yourself painlessly.
The woman hadn't raised her voice. She hadn't needed to.
She was a Realizer — someone of higher rank, of darker purpose. What Path? Still unknown. But the danger of her presence here meant one thing:
If she had reason to infiltrate the Eastern Branch, then she might return.
Which made this room a potential kill zone.
The system blinked to life. Adrian accessed the appointment logs, checking the last 60 days. Patterns, timestamps, session notes. All matched the backups in his memorized map of the original's work.
Nothing was missing.
He scanned deeper — browsing flagged documents, internal memos, referral tags. No unauthorized edits. No suppressed records. No ghost file wipes.
But that didn't mean they hadn't looked.
No one know what happen that day yet
and that woman didn't come back to investigate maybe she strong enough that ordinary mortal has no chance to survive
He leaned back, one finger tapping lightly against the armrest.
If someone had come searching for something — if they had already looked through his things and found nothing — then the next time, they might not search.
They might remove.
His eyes flicked to the window. Thin glass. Cheap design. One good shove and someone could be out of it. Accidental death.
He made a mental note: relocate backup files. Encode copies in the Scripture.
If anything's missing tomorrow, I vanish. New name. New face. New city.
He stood and moved toward the bookshelf. Touched the worn spines. Some psychology classics. Some case studies. One battered volume on ancient rites of purification — possibly unrelated, possibly not. He flipped it open.
Notes in the margins. His own handwriting. Or rather, the original's.
They were naïve, idealistic. A tone of someone trying to understand people.
He closed the book with a soft snap and returned it.
A knock came at the open doorframe.
"Doctor Vale?"
He turned.
A nurse — one of the earlier pair from the front desk. Mid-30s. Brown eyes. Ponytail coiled tighter now. She stood with a tray.
"Forgot your coffee. Doctor Cloud make it for you"
Adrian offered a polite smile. "Thank you."
She hesitated a moment. "You're… different today. More relaxed, I think."
Adrian studied her.
Sincere. Open posture. No probing in her voice. Just casual observation — like noting a plant had grown since last watering.
He replied gently, "Trying to take my own advice for once."
She grinned. "Hope it sticks. You've got a better smile than you think."
Then she left.
Adrian watched her go.
Another mark. Another sign that the passive charm was working — and growing.
Too many moments like this, and someone might ask the wrong question.
He then stood up adjust his shirt
"Time to face the Underboss"
He opened the door.
The corridor stretched ahead, empty and polished, the kind of clean that felt clinical. Adrian's shoes clicked lightly against the tile as he walked — not rushed, not slow. Measured. Intentional.
Adrian stood before a frosted glass door labeled Department Supervisor – Dr. Steven Elgren . The nameplate looked untouched by time, the lettering as severe and precise as the man behind the door.
He knocked once. A crisp, practiced sound.
"Come in."