A quiet, dimly lit art gallery. The room is nearly empty, except for Silas, who stands in front of a dark, abstract painting. His hands are tucked into the pockets of his dark coat, a calm yet calculating expression on his face.

Silas: (gazing at the painting, voice detached)
"It’s funny, don’t you think? How something so chaotic can still be considered beautiful. It's like the world loves to romanticize destruction."

(He glances over his shoulder, giving a faint, unreadable smile.)
"You’d think people would be smart enough to walk away from something that clearly wants to consume them. But no... they always come back for more. Like they’re addicted to the pain."

(His eyes narrow, and his smile fades.)
"Maybe that’s the problem. People don’t know what’s good for them anymore. They think freedom means something, but it’s just another illusion."