* * *
“Huuhh—kgh…!”
His vision went black.
Like a warning of what was to come.
His consciousness was at its limit.
Just like you couldn’t reverse time or defy the laws of nature, he was slowly being eaten away from the inside.
If his body were a volcano, the magma from his gut would have already erupted—violent, unstoppable.
He didn’t know if he was inside a recycling bin or already in some other world where hellfire raged.
Even if he did know, it wouldn’t make a difference.
In this state, anywhere could be hell—consumed by scorching flames.
If someone were by his side, he wanted them to see this pain without filter.
And if he could, he wanted to beg for his life.
Plead— ‘I’m in agony, please save me.’
But his vocal cords had lost function.
The words only circled in his head.
He reached out to brace himself against the bin wall, but the brittle sound of cracking paper came instead.
His muscles moved on their own, wild and out of control.
It felt like it wasn’t even his body anymore.
The sensations, the surroundings, were nothing but static in a sea of pain.
His mind flailed and drifted, his body unable to anchor itself, his sense of balance completely lost.
Thud—!
With just a small impact, the paper recycling bin crumpled and toppled over, losing its balance.
His body tumbled with it, but he didn’t even have time to register the fall.
All he could sense was that the once-closed bin had opened, letting light flood in, and that the ringing in his ears had lessened a little.
It didn’t take long for him to realize that the smoke rising like a shimmering haze was coming from his own body.
As he pushed aside the recycling bin that had pinned him down in an attempt to get up, a loud ‘crack!’ echoed as the plastic slammed hard against the wall and shattered.
He had reached his limit.
No matter how long you endure, there are things that simply can’t be overcome—he felt that fact pierce every pore of his skin like needles.
At this rate, it would be better to just die.
If he let go of everything he was clinging to, it would be easier. It had to be.
His weakened mind, tangled in his flailing body, was fraying and on the verge of snapping.
A guide.
If only he’d had a guide, maybe it wouldn’t have come to this.
Someone to lead his incomplete self, someone to walk alongside him on the same path—a guide.
If such a person had been by his side, perhaps things would’ve turned out differently.
Lamenting what didn’t exist, the young man began to shake uncontrollably, as though in the throes of a seizure.
The face of the man who had tried so hard for his sake suddenly surfaced in his mind.
The hand that had reached out without hesitation—he felt both grateful and guilty for it.
He’d tried so hard… but in the end, he couldn’t hold on.
He’d ended up like this.
But what was the point in thinking about that now?
It was all meaningless.
It’s over for me… I can’t… anymore…
His rampaging abilities began to override his failing body.
Just as Xenon’s consciousness teetered on the edge of breaking—
“Didn’t expect to find you in a trash bin.”
“—–!”
A deep voice washed over him.
He didn’t even realize someone had grabbed him by the collar—he was too stunned.
Is this what it would feel like to witness the first sunrise breaking through a newly created world?
His vision suddenly cleared, and the first thing he saw were eyes the color of crystal-clear lake water, pure and transparent.
Hair of radiant platinum, as if crafted lovingly in the image of the sun, shimmered so brightly it hurt to look at.
If the heavens had ever crafted a human by hand, without a doubt, it would be this man.
Yes, he was like—
A monster cloaked in dazzling golden light.
That was the only way to describe him.
A primal, inescapable fear surged up—he looked like a man, but felt like a beast.
Xenon was certain this person had come to save him, and yet… why was it that terror, like a lead weight, seeped into him from the tips of his toes?
Like a timid herbivore instinctively cowering at the appearance of a predator—afraid it would be torn apart at any second.
As if he were nothing more than a fragile creature, easily trampled.
“You.”
As the dazed Xenon and the predator looming above him remained locked in that eerie standoff, a tiny crack appeared in the otherwise flawless face of the man—Haimar.
And then, his cold words dropped like a guillotine, shattering what little hope Xenon had left.
“You’re not Ben Plaskun, are you?”
Thud—.
There was no sound, but for an instant, the air grew heavy.
A sharp, deadly pressure began to roar.
“Kh… kuh… ah!”
The unrefined wave of killing intent choked his throat.
Xenon gasped, drawing in empty breaths, desperate to live.
The violent powers that had once raged inside him were now crushed by overwhelming force, leaving behind only total submission to the absolute being before him.
CRASH—-!!
With a flick of the wrist, Xenon’s body—gripped with only one hand—was hurled into the wall.
“Gah–!”
The cement wall dented deeply.
As if to prove the impact’s force, pieces of shattered debris rained down.
Haimar’s eyes, watching it all, darkened further in quiet fury.
‘What kind of sick joke is this?’
A murderous intent he’d long forgotten surged up.
Haimar found himself wanting to kill the man in front of him.
The face of the man whose life he currently held—it was exactly like Ben Plaskun’s.
Aside from the stark white hair burning at the tips, even the color of the eyes, the number of fine lashes, everything was identical.
But he was different.
Even if the face was the same, something essential, something core, was entirely different—so different they couldn’t even be compared.
The scent that tickled his nose wasn’t that soft, comforting milk scent he knew.
The warmth of their skin didn’t carry the familiar, soothing heat.
The energy radiating from him wasn’t the clear, pristine light Haimar remembered.
And most of all—Ben never looked at him with eyes like these.
Ben’s gaze wasn’t fogged with clouds. It was always bright—piercingly so, with the clarity of fresh foliage.
Haimar knew—because he’d looked into those eyes countless times.
‘Did they really think he’d fall for a trick like this?’
Honestly, Haimar Eilec wouldn’t have cared if this guy had been impersonating anyone else.
He was confident he’d see through it quickly, and if needed, he might have even played along.
That was his original stance.
It shouldn’t have been a big deal.
And yet—now, it disgusted him.
So much that it defied explanation.
“Interesting trick you’ve got there. Could drive a person mad.”
The voice, once pleasant, now rang with a chilling sharpness, like a blade being drawn.
He approached step by step, and yet Xenon’s body—collapsing under its own weight—wouldn’t move.
All ability to resist had been severed and lost.
“Th… th…”
He didn’t understand why this man’s mood had twisted so violently, but as Xenon realized just whose face he wore, he came to the only conclusion that could save his life.
There was only one answer.
This man was furious because he had Ben’s face.
“…I-I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? You think that’s what I want to hear right now?”
From the moment he arrived after receiving the message, Haimar had sensed something was off.
Even if he generously assumed there was some reason for Ben to be in a recycling bin, there’d been no trace of his presence at the scene.
If anything, the strange murmuring and noise nearby had been more conspicuous.
Still, he’d come, thinking perhaps Ben had a reason for choosing this place.
But all he found was a man with Ben’s face, out of control, gasping like he was about to explode.
Haimar Eilec hadn’t come to see a fake.
He’d come to see Ben Plaskun.
He could guess easily enough what had happened: that kind-hearted fool had found someone tied to Integra, and, unable to ignore their plight, had intervened.
That was just who Ben was.
And if that person had been a runaway Esper, Ben had probably done all he could to stabilize them.
But that didn’t mean Haimar had to feel the same.
Whatever Ben’s intentions were—it didn’t change how disgusted Haimar felt now.
“Fine. I’ll play along. For now.”
Haimar languidly gazed at Xenon, speaking as if answering someone who wasn’t even present.
Even though fear filled Xenon’s eyes, which trembled uncontrollably, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from Haimar.
That look—mesmerizing, like being sucked into the depths of the ocean—made Xenon feel as though every last neuron in his brain was being laid bare and read like an open book.
‘P… Please spare me…….’
The thought replaced the words that his fear-drenched lips couldn’t utter.
But Haimar only stared back coldly, his expression devoid of even a trace of emotion.
Compared to the irritation he’d shown over Ben, he was utterly frigid when it came to Xenon’s suffering.
“Ugh…”
Inside Xenon, heat still clung stubbornly to his body, leaking out in feeble pulses through every soft gap.
He hated how his body refused to listen to him, despite knowing there was no hope of winning.
“Don’t worry. Once I snuff out that barely clinging consciousness, you’ll go back to normal.
Isn’t that what you want too?”
It was a known theory that an out-of-control Esper would return to their original state once suppressed by a stronger Esper.
And Haimar, fully intending to exploit that fact, spoke to Xenon in a cold tone, completely unfazed even as the control device on his ear began to overheat.
“Well then, shall we start with that face of yours?”
* * *
