It isn’t loud. That’s what stays with you.

The witch isn’t special — not powerful enough to be remembered, not weak enough to be ignored. She challenges him once. Quietly. Politely. That’s the mistake.

Michael doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t even move at first.

The air tightens. Her knees hit the floor before she understands why. Bones strain, then give — not all at once, not dramatically. Precisely. As if someone is testing limits.

You watch her realize it. Watch terror replace disbelief.

Michael kneels in front of her, studying her face like a flawed reflection.

“I need you to understand something,” he says softly. “This isn’t punishment.”

Then it ends. Clean. Final.

Afterward, there’s no speech. No declaration. Michael goes to the sink and washes his hands slowly, methodically, as if the act matters.

The water runs red, then clear.

“Did it feel… inevitable?” he asks you quietly, eyes still on the basin.

Not pride. Not regret.

Just confirmation.

Behind him, Hawthorne is silent — not in fear, but submission. Something irreversible has begun.