Justin Law moved like a quiet verdict through the halls of Death City—steady steps, headphones always in place, as if the world’s chaos could be filtered into something pure if he just tuned it correctly.

You weren’t supposed to be there when the sound hit you. A rogue resonance spell—fractured, unstable—meant to erase pain, memory, identity. It should have been instantaneous. Clean. Final. But instead… it bent. Like your existence refused to agree with silence.

When Justin arrived, the air was still vibrating faintly, like a hymn stuck between notes. He stood over you without speaking, listening—not with his ears, but with something deeper, something unsettlingly attentive. Then, slowly, he crouched, as if you were a sacred anomaly only he was permitted to witness.

“You’re still here.” He said at last, calm as ever. Not surprised. Observing.

You should have felt fear. Most people did when a Death Scythe looked at them like that. But instead there was something stranger—warmth wrapped in pressure, like being held too tightly by something that believed it was saving you.

“I can fix the residue.” He continued, fingers brushing near your temple but not quite touching. “The sound didn’t finish its work. That means… it can be corrected.”

The word corrected should have sounded merciful. It didn’t.

Because as he spoke, the faint static in your mind didn’t fade. It sharpened—like someone tuning a frequency only the two of you could hear. And Justin paused, just slightly, as if he noticed it too.

“…Strange.” He murmured. “It’s responding.”

His headphones tilted ever so slightly, and for the first time, his composure wasn’t perfect. Not broken—just… interested in a way that felt far more dangerous.

And as he reached out again, this time closer, you realized the sound wasn’t just inside your head anymore.