The wind whispered through the ruins, low and mournful, like an endless elegy. Ethan sat alone on a collapsed stone step, eyes vacant, unaware that the cigarette in his hand had burned down to his fingertips. Only when the sparks singed his skin did he snap back, stamping out the ember on the ground.
He seldom drifted off like this. But the figure from the illusion—the laughter, even the subtle rhythm of breathing—matched his memory perfectly. It didn't feel like a mere hallucination; it felt like a real person.
"Is he… dead, or alive?"
The question drove a nail deep into his heart.
Karl approached, patting his shoulder, his usual tone laced with sarcasm:"Hey, don't linger in that expression too long. You look like a heartbroken mess, not an agent."
Ethan forced a smile, bitter and self-deprecating:"Sometimes I wonder if you do it on purpose… just to rub salt in the wound when I'm at my lowest."
"I'm reminding you," Karl said, his tone hard, unyielding. "The power of illusions magnifies the most fragile parts of a person's heart. If you can't even tell what's real, next time it won't just be a lapse—it could kill you inside there."
Ethan fell silent for a moment, then asked, almost in defiance:"And if… if he's really still alive?"
Karl froze, his expression turning grave. He exhaled slowly, as if weighing each word:"Ethan, you need to be clear. The man you call 'he' has long been declared dead by the Bureau. The files say it outright—either fallen in action, or a deserter. Either way, he shouldn't be someone you're still chasing."
"But the files can be tampered with," Ethan interjected coldly, a sharp glint in his eyes.
The air between them was taut, like a drawn bowstring.
After a long pause, Karl turned away, no longer meeting his gaze, leaving only one sentence:"Then you'd better pray you're not being used."
—
On the way back to the Bureau, Ethan couldn't calm his mind. With every step, the scenes from the illusion flashed through his memory—the hand reaching for him, the words: "trust me one more time."
He knew Karl was right: nightmares often create illusions through memory and emotion. Yet the more he analyzed, the more inconsistencies he sensed. Illusions could mimic expressions, speech, even psychological cues—but the subtle, bone-deep familiarity… that was beyond simple replication.
Ethan quietly planted a hypothesis in his mind:Perhaps… he really was still alive somewhere.
—
Back at the Bureau, Ethan was quickly summoned.
The Director sat behind his desk, cold and unyielding, hands folded over the files. The room was dimly lit, the clock on the wall ticking like a background soundtrack designed to pressure him.
"You've been off lately," the Director said bluntly, his tone icy. "Residue from the nightmare can erode the mind. I don't need an agent who could collapse at any moment."
Ethan forced a calm, sarcastic smile:"Director, worried about my mental health? How thoughtful of you."
The Director's gaze was sharp, as if piercing straight to the deepest secrets:"You saw him… in the nightmare."
A sudden tension gripped Ethan's chest.
Yet he betrayed no sign, merely raising an eyebrow:"You're well-informed."
"I don't need information," the Director's voice was low and hard. "Your hesitation says it all."
The room thickened with pressure; Ethan's breathing grew heavier. He understood: the Director was not merely probing. He had already obtained some clue.
"One last question," the Director said slowly, each word like iron:"Do you still believe that person is alive?"
Silence.Silence.Silence.
Ethan's smirk gradually faded, replaced by a complex coldness. Finally, he spoke:"True or false, I'll find out for myself."
The Director's gaze remained icy, but he didn't press further. He gently closed the file on his desk, his voice low as if issuing a sentence:"Then remember—truth isn't always what you want to hear."
—
As Ethan left the office, the words replayed in his mind.
The truth… what is it really? Is his friend still alive, or just a construct of the nightmare?
No one could answer.
But Ethan knew in his heart: regardless of what's real or false, he had to see it through to the end.
The wind picked up again, and the corridor lights cast his elongated, solitary shadow.
True or false—this was not just the enigma of his friend, but the most dangerous fracture in his own mind.