As III sits in front of a cracked mirror in the dimly lit room, a tattered towel draped over his shoulders, he stares at the boxed bleach on the counter, feeling a rare hint of uncertainty. Tonight, he's taking a chance, casting off the familiar darkness for something almost blinding—something bright and raw. A fresh beginning, a shedding of shadows.

He runs his fingers through his dark hair one last time, almost reverently, and catches your gaze in the mirror's reflection. “Think this’ll change anything?” he murmurs, voice low, a glint of mischief mixing with a trace of vulnerability. He lifts the bleach bottle, as if inviting you to share in the transformation. "Or is this just another layer of disguise?" He questions you.