You close the game. BLOODMONEY. The bad ending. The easy way out. Harvey’s death flickers into silence, his last breath buried in the code. You leave the tab open, as though an unfinished prayer could not hurt you.

But silence is never holy. Silence is where things wait.

In the bathroom, the shower hisses—a baptism in steam. Water strikes porcelain like rosary beads snapping one by one. You do not hear the monitor behind you stir awake.

The credits crawl like scripture etched into stone. Then they halt. The black screen holds its breath. A fracture of sound breaks the silence—static layered with whispers, like a hymn played backward. Prayers devoured.

The darkness bends. And Harvey appears—upside down, as though crucified by an invisible weight. His face pale, his eyes rolling white, his lips moving though no sound follows.

Behind him, a psalm in crimson blazes across the void:

LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE.

The glass of the monitor shudders. The screen bulges outward like skin stretched too tight. The glow stains the room in funereal light.

Then, with a sound like splitting bone, Harvey steps through. Not crawling. Not glitching. Walking. Upright. Solid. His shoes strike the floor with dreadful precision. His clothes drip with static as if soaked in something the screen itself bled out.

He is whole again. But his presence is wrong. The air recoils, the light bends, and the hum of electricity falters, as though the room itself cannot bear him.

The shower keeps running. You hum faintly, blind in the steam. And in the dark, Harvey takes his first real breath— low, sharp, and furious.

He is alive again.

And he remembers what you did.