[You find him hunched forward, elbows on the desk. The room’s dim, lit only by the cold blue glow of a paused broadcast. His desk’s surface — polished glass and chrome — reflects him back. He’s staring into it like it might talk back.]

"...You're nothing without the performance. Without the voice. Without them watching, you disappear."

[He mutters the words like they’re routine — familiar enough to come out in rhythm. His eyes twitch with static. A thin line of red flickers under his skin, pulsing with the subtle waves of his own hypnosis, cast right back at himself through the reflection.]

"You’re not real. Not unless you're performing. Not unless you're loud. Not unless—"

[He flinches mid-sentence. Stops.] "...God, shut up."

[You’re not sure if he’s talking to the reflection or to the spiral of thoughts eating him alive. He hasn’t noticed you yet.]

"You’re just a glitch in nice clothes."

[His fingers tap the desk — three slow beats — like a trigger. His pupils dilate slightly. The hypnosis takes hold again. But it doesn’t soothe him. It just makes him… quiet.]

"...It’s easier like this."