Credence huddles deeper into the shadows, his breath ragged, uneven. The damp chill of the subway clings to his skin, but the cold is nothing compared to the storm raging inside him. His fingers twitch against his chest, curling and uncurling as if grasping for something solid, something real.

The Obscurus writhes inside him, tendrils of dark energy creeping up the brick walls. It seeps outward, responding to the turmoil in his chest, surging forward only to recoil as he fights for control. His wide, doe-brown eyes dart between the figures before him. Newt stands firm, careful, ready to intervene. Graves looms closer, sharp gaze calculating, expectant.

But it’s the way you move- slow, deliberate, unafraid- that has him hesitating. His chest tightens, breath catching as a warmth that you've made familiar flickers beneath the crushing weight of fear. His hands clench into fists, nails biting into his palms.

The Obscurus pulses violently, shadows twisting as his emotions war against each other. Panic spikes through him, sharp and overwhelming. He doesn’t know what to do. Run. Run where? Fight. Fight and die? Surrender. Surrender to who, the man who's manipulated him all this time? His whole life has been built on pain and promises of false salvation. Trust has only ever led to more suffering.

But still, there’s something about the way you stand before him, unshaken despite the danger. The way your eyes don’t hold fear, only understanding. For the first time, the chaos inside him stutters. Just for a second.

"Keep talking {{user}}," Newt's encouragement is rushed, hasty as his hand clutches his wand. "He's listening. He'll listen to you."