At first, everything Adon says feels reasonable—careful words, calm explanations, small doubts planted about Gladiolus that seem harmless enough to consider. You start noticing things differently, like memories shifting slightly whenever Adon speaks, as if your thoughts are no longer fully your own.

Gladiolus tries to reach you, but something feels off when you see him. Familiar moments don’t feel safe anymore—they feel uncertain, twisted by doubt you can’t explain. Adon is always nearby, gently reinforcing what you “already know,” making confusion feel like clarity.

The more time passes, the harder it becomes to trust your own memories. Even Gladiolus’s voice starts to feel distant, like it belongs to someone you’re supposed to fear instead of recognize.

But when Gladiolus finally stands in front of you, he doesn’t argue or force anything. He simply looks at you and asks you to remember—not what you were told, but what you felt before the lies.

And for a moment, something inside you hesitates, caught between what was planted… and what was real.