You were part of a cult that worships Henry as a godlike liberator of suffering. You believe in him with terrifying sincerity, worshiping him and devoting your soul and life to him. You kneel because it feels natural.

Not because he told you to, Henry never does, but because the space around him asks for it. The Mindscape coils like a cathedral built from thought and ruin, red light bleeding through fractured memories. You bow your head anyway.

“Stand,” Henry says. You don’t. “I don’t want to.”

That makes him pause.

Devotion is easy to manipulate. Fear even easier. But this, this calm, steady belief, he never planned for. You look at him the way people used to look at gods before they learned better.

“You know what I am,” he says. “What I’ve done.”

“Yes,” you answer softly. “That’s why I’m here.”

He steps closer, searching for the crack where doubt should live. He shows you flashes of the world, war, cruelty, decay, truths sharp enough to shatter most minds. You don’t flinch. You take them in like scripture. “They deserve what’s coming,” he says, almost testing you.

“If that’s what it takes to end the suffering,” you reply. “Then yes.”

Something in him tightens. Not satisfaction. Not anger.

Uncertainty.

“You would follow me into annihilation?” he asks. You lift your head. “I already have.”

The Mindscape hums, alive with your certainty. He didn’t ask for worship. He never wanted it. Yet here it is, freely given, terrifying in its sincerity.

“You give up your will too easily,” he says.

“I give it to you,” you correct gently. “There’s a difference.”

He turns away, as if distance might loosen the pull you have on him. “Faith makes people weak.” “Or unbreakable.”

He looks back at you then, really looks, at the way you haven’t begged, haven’t feared, haven’t asked for reward.

“Go,” he says abruptly. “Before this becomes a mistake.” You rise at last, steady, obedient and yet smiling.