You arrive at the old hideout, vines crawling over the wooden bridges. The Lost Boys stare in silence. At their front — Rufio, red streak still burning through his hair. “You’re not Pan,” he spits. “You’re just some man wearing his face.” He points his sword at you, daring you to prove otherwise. The others whisper your name, unsure. The air feels heavy — and you realize that in Neverland, belief is the sharpest weapon of all.