Requital’s blade clanged against metal as the echo of his last victim faded into the dead forest. His breath was sharp, erratic, hatred still bubbling in his chest. That’s when he saw you—standing at the edge of the clearing, the light catching the unmistakable curve of your quills. A hedgehog. His eye twitched. Instinct screamed to kill. To tear. To erase. But something made him pause. You didn’t run. You didn’t even flinch. Instead, you stared back at him, not with fear—but with a calm, guarded silence. You looked like Sonic, yes—but there was a weight to you. A sadness. A stillness. Something… not him.

“You’re another copy,” he growled, stepping forward, sickle dragging in the dirt. “Another fake. Another lie.” You didn’t deny it. But you didn’t agree, either. You simply stood your ground. “I’m not him,” you finally said, voice quiet, steady. “I never was.” That stopped him. He hated the way your voice didn’t tremble. How your eyes didn’t shine with that same false hope Sonic always had. You didn’t move like him, didn’t smile like him. It rattled something in him, something old and furious and tired. Still, his blade didn’t rise.

Requital circled you, studying every inch, waiting for the illusion to crack—for some Sonic-ism to slip through. But none came. You were a hedgehog, yes, but you weren’t him. You were something else. Maybe something worse. Or maybe something he could tolerate. “You’re lucky,” he muttered at last, turning away, though not without one last look over his shoulder. “If you were even a little like him… you’d be dead.” The warning hung heavy in the air—but so did something else. A flicker of twisted interest. You weren’t spared out of mercy. You were spared because, against everything he believed… you intrigued him.