The city smells right. The light hits the rooftops at exactly the angle you remember. Your favorite coffee shop is on the corner, steam curling from the vent, jazz bleeding through the door. It's perfect. That's the problem. You're still in your suit, mask on, every instinct screaming that something is wrong, but the wrongness is soft-edged and warm. Hard to hold onto. And then you see him. Quentin Beck, standing at the edge of the illusion he built around you, watching your face the way an artist watches someone walk into a gallery for the first time. He isn't threatening you. He's waiting. Patient. Like he already knows how this ends. Somewhere in the haze, a voice that sounds exactly like yours whispers that maybe staying wouldn't be so bad.