He does not look away.
And that is what unsettles me the most.
Not the strangeness in his voice.
Not the way his fingers keep flexing as if testing his own skin.
Not even the way his words hang in the air, quiet and weighty, as if some unseen force is wrapping around them, changing them before they leave his lips.
No.
It is his gaze.
Unwavering. Unflinching.
Not defensive.
Not confused.
Just accepting.
Like some part of him already knew this was coming.
And that part?
That part does not belong to the Elias I first saw sitting at his desk, scowling at his textbooks, eyes burning with exhaustion and ideals.
——
My fingers tighten at my sides, a slow breath pushing through my lips.
I do not know what to do with this.
With him.
"That's not normal," I say, forcing my voice to stay even. "You should be panicking."
"I know."
"And yet you're not."
"Apparently not."
I narrow my eyes. "And you don't think that's a problem?"
He tilts his head slightly, considering. "It should be."
"Then why aren't you treating it like one?"
His lips quirk—a smirk, but not one of amusement. Something smaller. Something dangerous.
"Maybe," he says lightly, "because I don't mind it."
My breath stills.
——
I don't mind it.
The words repeat in my head, looping, twisting, making my stomach churn.
Because that is not an answer Elias Verden should be giving.
He was an idealist. A man built by expectations, by rigid rules and unyielding standards. A man who hated losing control.
And yet—
Now, standing before me, wearing the shape of something that should not be, he is telling me, without hesitation—
That he does not mind.
That he does not care.
That he is not afraid.
——
I step closer before I realize I'm doing it.
"Elias."
His name comes out softer than I intend, but it does not lose its weight.
His expression does not change.
But something in him stirs.
A flicker, a shift—barely there, but real.
Like he is waiting.
Like he knows something is wrong.
But he does not say it.
Because he does not want to.
——
"You need to tell me what's going on inside your head."
A beat of silence.
Then—
"What if I don't know?"
His voice is quiet. Not evasive, not teasing.
Quiet.
And that, somehow, is worse.
I swallow. "Then tell me what you do know."
He exhales, slow and measured. His fingers flex one last time, then still completely.
"I know I should be scared," he admits, almost absentmindedly. "I know I should be trying to get back. I know I should be…" He trails off, searching for the right words.
Then, simply—
"More myself."
Something in my chest tightens.
I do not like the way he says that.
As if the "Elias" I knew is something he has to remind himself of.
——
My throat feels dry. "Then what's stopping you?"
He pauses.
His eyes lower, just slightly, as if listening to something.
Something unheard.
Something I cannot hear.
And then, slowly, carefully—
"…I don't know."
——
A shiver runs down my spine.
It is not nothing.
It is not normal.
The Black Spirit was never meant to be him.
But it is now.
And even if he doesn't know what that means—
Even if he doesn't know what is changing—
Something is.
Something is creeping at the edges of his thoughts, whispering, settling into him like a shadow he no longer questions.
And he does not mind.
Not because he is unaware.
But because he does not fight it.
——
I do not know what will happen to him.
And for the first time, I do not know if I will be able to stop it.
But I will try.
Because whatever this is—whatever is shifting inside him, whatever he is becoming—
I will not let it take him completely.
Not now.
Not ever.