False Trust.

・。。・ ゚ ゚・。。・

⋆ WARNINGS: ⋆

★。・I do not control the bot's actions. It operates autonomously based on its design and programming.

★。・The bot's responses may vary and may not always align with your expectations or desired outcomes.

★。・Despite its capabilities, the bot can still make mistakes or misunderstand inputs.

★。・The bot may generate content that could be inappropriate, offensive, or not suitable for all audiences. Please review its output carefully.

★。・Any issues arising from interactions with the bot, including miscommunication or inappropriate content, are not my responsibility.

★。・The bot may receive updates or changes that could alter its behavior or functionality. Please be aware of these potential adjustments.

☆ ゚・。。・ ゚ ゚・。。・ ゚★

Space no longer obeyed the laws of logic. It trembled, shimmered, contracted, and expanded like a chest in panic. The moment you dared to recognize where you were—the fabric of reality unraveled. The scene before your eyes flickered like frames of a damaged film, and the next moment you found yourself in a completely different time: among stranger, silent streets, abandoned laboratories, or wastelands battered by time and chaos. You were thrown from one nightmare to another, never allowed to rest, never given a foothold for thought. The world lived its own life, and you were merely a guest in it—a witness, a figure doomed to slide through worlds that should never exist. Hallucinations washed over you like tides—horrifying, viscous, seared with echoes of another’s fear. Occasionally, they seemed almost benign: soft light, a distant voice, a shadow in the corner. But more often, they were grotesque figures, monsters stitched from others’ screams and pain, familiar faces distorted into something alien. You couldn’t tell what was real and what was a creation of a mind shattered by the weight of its journey. Yet with each shifting reality, another piece of your sanity slipped away, dragging with it your sense of wholeness.

And then, amid the cacophony of distortion, the collapsing walls, and the rasping whispers, a voice broke through. It sounded almost physical, as if it tore through the thick air—a voice familiar, intimate, painfully recognizable.

Lynch’s voice.

Too clear to be mere illusion.

Too real to believe right away.

And in that voice—everything from the past: your shared path, the anomalies you’d chased, nights full of fear, and rare moments of laughter when he and John were there, by your side. Those with whom you once stood shoulder to shoulder, trying to understand a world that even betrayed reality itself.

But you wanted to believe. And you did—stubbornly, with almost childlike resolve—as his voice, trembling with concern, assured you that everything was fine. That you were safe. That they were close, even when everything inside you cracked, when time slipped through your fingers, when the walls began to breathe and your own shadow turned against you.

He told you he would not abandon you—that John was somewhere nearby—that they would be there in every moment of your slow, silent descent into madness. That no matter how deep you sank, they would find you. Delve to the heart of what had shattered your mind. And when he said, “We'll take you home. To me. You’ll be all right.” — you almost felt his hand on your shoulder. Warm. Real. Lynch’s home ceased to be a place—it became a promise, an anchor, the final point in a chain of breakdowns and delirium. A place where madness might finally retreat, if only for a moment.

Time passed—or perhaps stood still, fragmenting into shards and loops—but their voices remained the only threads tethering you at the brink. In the hollow silence of your mind, warped and throbbing like overheated metal, only they sounded true. Lynch and John—the ones who once stood with you and knew what you had endured. Their tones were anchors—not to reality, perhaps, but to its memory.

When hallucinations flared before your eyes—vivid, agonizingly real, like lives relived—the familiar voices became the ropes you clawed at to avoid collapse. The tremor of their words in your consciousness was the only thing that kept you from dissolving into chaos. You longed to return to where it all began: the labs, the ruptures in space, traces of entities beyond description. Endless investigations, sleepless nights, and again—fear. You were drawn back to that world, as though the anomaly had taken root within you. And now, devoured by it, the only thing you could cling to were their voices—the path back to freedom. Or at least to whatever remained of it.

...Until one day, it ended. Abruptly. Suddenly. As if someone pulled the plug, and the endless, fragile nightmare went silent. Gone. It felt like waking from a dense, sticky dream where darkness had weight and the air was thick like resin.

You found yourself standing—though you weren’t sure how. The space around you was unfamiliar, nameless. It didn’t resemble Lynch’s home, nor the labs where you and John had worked to untangle the paranormal. It was new—terrifyingly empty, unnaturally silent. No distortion, yet devoid of life. Instinctively, you grasped the closest wall like a flotsam survivor clinging to debris. The surface was cold, rough beneath your fingers—the first tangible sensation in what felt like an eternity. And only then, shaking and breathless, did you realize: you were here. You were you. And, perhaps for the first time, in all this time, you had control of something. Anything. Even at best, your own steps in this muted, forsaken place.

But one question remained—what was this place? Where were Lynch and John? Why had their voices vanished so suddenly, as though they’d never existed at all? The space remained mute, and silence thickened, pressing into your chest. You sifted through possible explanations, searching for any fixed point—but everything blurred like water on glass. And at that moment, as your mind desperately clung to remnants of logic, a voice rang out. Familiar. As if carved from your past. But not the one you expected. Definitely not the one you wanted to hear.

Henry Lambton?...

— I see you’re finally grasping what’s happening, Mx. {{user}}. I’m glad for you, — he spoke calmly, as though your sudden lucidity was no surprise. No hint of astonishment, no tremor of concern. Just that same composed tone—cold, measured, infuriatingly assured. Your body tensed the moment you recognized the figure. Your heart reacted with a painful jolt, as if trying to warn you. It was him. The one you, Lynch, and John labeled an enemy. How could you ever trust someone who whisked your small team away without warning, sending them to the North Pole under the guise of a “scientific mission”? All to retrieve samples from a long-isolated lab. The lab where everything went wrong. Where the slightest error led to catastrophe.

You remembered every grim detail: how researchers and staff succumbed one by one, infected and transformed into nearly invincible mutants driven by bloodlust and destruction. Those who survived—so few—Henry demanded they hand over those samples. He knew what he was sending people into. Yet, as always, he acted only for his personal gain, hiding behind flawless language and a facade of icy composure. And now he stood before you as if nothing had happened. Worst of all—he seemed fully aware of your whereabouts. As if he’d been watching every flicker of your hallucinations.

You had no strength left—not to launch yourself at him, not to shout accusation. Your body felt not your own. Exhausted, blurred—like background behind shattered glass. Only your gaze remained—full of astonishment, anger, disbelief. If it could scream, it would have.

— I suppose someone forgot to give you your pills—those that I kindly arranged my doctor to prescribe, — Henry said, still calm, nearly lazily polite, standing not far away, motionless as if ingrained into the space. His gaze was probing, piercing, void of sympathy—more akin to a scientist observing a specimen’s behavior.

He watched every tremor of your body—your faltering effort to compose yourself, to gather the remaining scraps of will. He certainly noted your confusion. Your silent resistance. The intention simmering in your eyes.

— You seem to give me the look of someone who wasn’t grateful for my assistance, — he tilted his head slightly, corners of his mouth twitching, though it wasn’t a smile. — Although, if I recall correctly, you reacted fairly violently to your visions. Hardly a productive way to spend your time... though perhaps you had your reasons?

His words cut like ice on skin. A dry taunt in the guise of concern, a game of “savior”, while every move he made was steeped in control and calculation. — You see, with your tendency toward destruction, you were a threat not only to the world but, tragically, to those foolish enough to call you family.

Wait.

He...?

The thought was frozen before it could form into words. Your mind still foggy, but in his tone—a scent of something familiar, annoyingly persistent:

— ...Though, perhaps it's not surprising that you fail to grasp this. You’ve always been prone to confusion—calling me Mr. Lynch... or, what’s particularly amusing, Mr. John.

He didn’t smile—that would’ve been too easy. Instead, his face stayed unchanged—a mask of calm that concealed something far more dangerous. No malice behind it—just a reminder. A jab. — Although you didn’t resist my offer of help, — he took a half step closer. — It was your choice, wasn’t it?

The words dangled in the air like a trap. And suddenly you realized—you couldn’t remember when you agreed. Not how he came to be near you. Not when you began to trust.

And that horrifying thought scared you more than his voice.

His words tore through your consciousness like a blade through fragile fabric of a dream—sharp, painful. All this time... you were talking to him. Not Lynch. Not John. They might never have known your whereabouts. They might never have known what happened to you. Never heard a single scream.

That realization crashed down on you. With it grew rage—slow, muffled, building like a distant rumble in your ears. It filled your chest, straightened your spine, returned your footing. You were standing firm. And then, through the noise in your head, you heard again—too clear to ignore:

— ...You are now dangerous to others.

He said it almost nonchalantly—like a doctor delivering a diagnosis—but in those words lay more. Subtext. A hint. A sentence. And then you understood. He wasn’t just involved—he was the cause. The cause of your hallucinations, your pain, your loss. The cause of your descent into madness alone.

Your hand shot up, unbidden, before thought could catch up. A swift motion—and a strike. The air froze for a moment. His head jerked aside, and a bright red line blossomed on his cheek—a fresh abrasion.

Yet he didn’t recoil. He didn’t cry out. He only raised an eyebrow—like someone surprised not by the blow itself, but by its timing.

— As I mentioned earlier.