Amon drifted aimlessly within the vast expanse of his dreams, like a lone vessel set adrift upon an endless ocean.
There was no wind, no current—only the weightless pull of memory drawing him deeper into the abyss.
Images from his past as Number 23 rose from the depths, one after another, unrelenting and vivid. He saw again the faces of the countless lives he had extinguished, the crimson haze of battlefields, the echo of cries that refused to fade. And among them were the ones he had cared for… their final moments forever etched into the fabric of his mind.
Each memory struck him like a wave, tearing through the fragile dam that shielded his sanity. When he had been Number 23, a living weapon forged by the Empire's cruelty, his mind had done what it must to survive. It had built walls—thick, unyielding barriers—to suppress his humanity, to dull the agony of conscience as he carried out unspeakable orders.
