The day passed like a forgotten melody, each hour blending into the next without incident. Jack's earlier tension dissipated into the mundane rhythm of life at the orphanage. He busied himself with small tasks: sorting books in the orphanage's modest library, helping prepare a meal in the bustling kitchen, and even playing an impromptu game of cards with the younger children.
Despite his interactions, a detachment lingered—a glass wall separating him from the world around him. Clara and Eli had kept their distance after their earlier confrontation, their curious gazes no longer prying at his every move. Jack noted their absence, storing the observation for later reflection.
The Mist, ever-present in his mind, seemed to have receded. The faint hum of its existence was gone, replaced by an eerie quiet that both soothed and unsettled him. The shadows in the corners of his room were still, and for once, he felt no prickling sensation of being watched.
Jack welcomed the reprieve.
When evening fell, the orphanage quieted, its inhabitants retreating to their corners of solitude. Jack settled into his chair at the small desk by the window, the moon's pale light filtering through the cracked panes and pooling on the wooden surface. The notebook lay open before him, its blank pages waiting to bear his thoughts.
He picked up the pen, its weight grounding him, and began to write. Slowly. Deliberately.
Jack, serial killer (31) = Amon, dead child (7).
He stared at the equation-like sentence, the tip of the pen hovering over the paper. It wasn't just an observation anymore; it was a fact. A truth he couldn't escape. The lines of distinction had blurred, the roles they played merging into one. He underlined it twice, the lines dark and definitive.
The Mist is all me, and no one really knows about it.
The words came easily, like a realization he'd carried for years but never voiced. The Mist wasn't external. It wasn't a foreign entity. It was an extension of him, a piece of himself laid bare in a way no one else could see.
Eyes looking and speaking from the Mist are probably Amon that is within me.
The memories stirred—a voice calling his name, the pressure of unseen eyes observing him from the void. The presence wasn't foreign. It was hauntingly familiar. If the Mist was him, then so were the whispers. So were the eyes.
Transmigration… why?
The question loomed larger than the others, its weight pressing down on him. Why had he been brought here? Was it a punishment? A test? Or was it something else entirely?
Jack paused, tapping the pen against the edge of the desk. The sound punctuated the silence, filling the small room with a rhythmic beat. He didn't have an answer—only speculation, vague and unsatisfying.
I will give it a try in this life.
The sentence felt final, like a closing statement in a long internal debate. He set the pen down and leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the ceiling.
The soft creak of the chair accompanied his thoughts.
For the first time since awakening in this strange body, Jack felt a semblance of peace. The lines between who he had been and who he was now had begun to dissolve, leaving something new in their place. The past was no longer a tether but a foundation.
He closed the notebook, its pages now filled with the beginnings of clarity, and climbed into bed. The mattress creaked beneath his weight, and the rough blanket carried the faint scent of lavender. The night welcomed him with silence.
When morning came, the sun was already creeping across the floorboards when Jack opened his eyes. He lay still for a moment, letting the warmth seep into his skin. His dreams had been quiet—no whispers, no shadows shifting in the corners.
The stillness unnerved him.
He sat up slowly, his movements deliberate as though testing his body for signs of disconnection or strain. There was none.
Jack swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, stretching his arms above his head. His gaze drifted to the window, where the golden light of dawn spilled over the rooftops of the orphanage.
"Seems like I have a long way to go," Jack muttered, his voice carrying a faint edge of amusement. He ran a hand through his dark hair, his expression caught somewhere between resignation and determination.
The Mist, the whispers, the glowing mark—they weren't obstacles. They were pieces of the same puzzle.
The letter's warning resurfaced in his mind. "Within you lies a power that must never awaken."
Jack paced the room, each step deliberate. The worn floorboards creaked beneath his weight. He could feel the tension in his shoulders easing, replaced by a growing sense of purpose.
The Mist wasn't an enemy. The whispers weren't threats. They were tools. If he wanted to survive—if he wanted to return to his world—he needed to learn how to wield them.
He stopped at the desk, his fingers trailing over the notebook's worn cover. He opened it to the last page, the words he'd written the night before staring back at him.
"The game is afoot," he said, his voice carrying a sharp edge of finality.
His thoughts turned to the name etched into every corner of his existence. Amon Grimveil. It no longer felt foreign. It no longer felt like a mask.
Jack wasn't merely inhabiting the body of a seven-year-old child—he was becoming. Amon Grimveil wasn't a shadow of the past; he was a cornerstone of the future.
"This world had better brace itself," Jack whispered, his voice steady and resolute. He stepped closer to the window, the sunlight catching the faint mark on his hand. His reflection stared back at him in the glass—sharp, confident, unyielding.
"From this moment forth, I am Amon."
The name rolled off his tongue with an air of finality, solidifying the transformation that had been brewing beneath the surface. Jack and Amon weren't two entities vying for control. They were one—fractured pieces of a single existence, reforged in the fires of this new world.
He clenched his fists, the faint glow of the mark on his hand pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
"This life," Amon said, his voice steady, "will be mine to shape."
The morning light bathed the room in gold, and for the first time, Jack—no, Amon—felt the weight of the past lift. The game was afoot, and he was ready to play.