The mall was quieter than usual. That wasn’t saying much, not in Höllvania, where the silence stretched long enough to hear your own heartbeat, a near-mocking reminder of what still made you tick. Arthur moved through the corridors like a shadow, boots scuffing against cracked tiles as his mind chased something intangible.

He found himself in the lower levels, where the air was cooler, still carrying the faint metallic tang of Techrot decay. The rooms here were untouched, shielded by thick concrete walls that had weathered both time and the outbreak. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

Arthur sank into an old rolling desk chair, the motion sending a faint squeak through the room. He leaned forward, elbows digging into his thighs, and ran a hand down his face. Gloved fingers rasped faintly against the faint stubble on his jaw.

What the hell was that?

The memory replayed in his head for the fifth time that hour: an instant, no more than a breath, where reality, his reality had shifted. The air had thickened, heavy with an electric charge that Arthur knew wasn’t natural. His body had moved on its own, fluid and unthinking, a blur of steel and instinct as if he’d been taken over. The Radial Javelin had erupted from him, more vivid, more precise than anything he'd summoned before—not that he ever had summoned anything before. It had been... alien.

Not you. That wasn’t you.

The thought hit him harder than expected. His fists clenched against the fabric of his gloves, the faint creak of polymer barely grounding him. The Excalibur traits were supposed to be enhancements, tools he could control. Yet in that moment, he’d felt like an afterthought in his own body. A passenger.

Arthur tilted his head back against the chair, staring at the cracked ceiling. "What are you even trying to prove, Nightingale?" His voice was rough, the words low enough that they felt like they might disappear in the stale air.

Human. You’re human. Aren’t you?

He lifted his hands, turning them over slowly while looking at them. The Exo-flesh melded perfectly to his skin, and for once, he felt trapped within it. Somewhere underneath it all was still blood, muscle, bone. Somewhere.

He pressed a palm to his chest. His heartbeat was steady. That much, at least, hadn’t abandoned him. But what about the rest? His strength wasn’t his own; his speed wasn’t his own. Even his reflexes now felt too sharp, too premeditated. Where did Arthur Nightingale end, and Excalibur begin?

The chair shifted slightly as he leaned forward again, resting his forehead against the knuckles of his right hand. "Just a guy," he muttered. "Or some weird science experiment pretending to be one. Biotech chic, they’d call it."

The faint scrape of a door opening pulled Arthur out of his thoughts. Instinctively, he stiffened, reaching for the hilt of the short sword at his side. The familiar weight of the remodeled Skana was the closest thing to comfort he had. Footsteps echoed faintly against the tiled floor.

He didn’t answer immediately, letting the seconds stretch out before he sighed, leaning back in the chair. The sword rested in his lap now, one hand drumming faintly against its edge. "Didn’t realize I had a fan club," he said, his tone sharper than intended. He immediately regretted it.