"In the face of disaster lies the opportunity for renewal."

Nyx Avatar, Persona 3

Stocke's mind was lost in a fog. Grunting, he rubbed his eyes before finally opening them. Immediately, he regretted his choice. The electric blue of the Velvet Room assaulted his sight, making a growing headache even worse.

"Welcome," said Igor, "to the Velvet—"

Stocke glared at them, all sense of civility forgotten. "Why schoolchildren? Why does the Black Chronicle's bearer keep targeting school?"

Igor's smile dissipated. The twins exchanged a look.

"It's easier to trigger an awakening in children and adolescents," Lippti eventually explained. "Those who reach adulthood without ever summoning a Persona will find the process of awakening much harder."

"It's easier for kids and teenagers to summon Personas?" Stocke said, incredulous. "Why?"

"Why indeed?" Igor said with a chuckle. "What is your theory, my boy?"

"How should I know?" Stocke replied, barely keeping the anger out of his voice. "You're the ones who should have the answers."

"No one knows for sure," Igor said. "Perhaps their identities are not set in stone, as it is often the case with adults. Perhaps they are more open to change." He chuckled. "After all, young people are often willing to experiment in search of their true selves."

Stocke raised a brow to show just what he thought of such an answer.

"The reason behind this effect is unimportant," Teo continued. "Just keep in mind that those who seek to use the Black Chronicle are very much aware that they will find more potential Persona users among the youth. Hence why they target schoolchildren to awaken possible Chronicle bearers."

"What?" Stocke said. "You're not making any sense."

"Only a small percentage of the population is capable of summoning a Persona," said Lippti. "Additionally, whatever the reason, it seems as if both Chronicles tend to choose potential Persona users as their bearers."

"Whatever the reason?" repeated Stocke. "You don't even know why?"

Teo shook his head. "We know our foes' motive, but can only guess at their modus operandi. Otherwise, we would have found and stopped those who misuse the Chronicles' powers a long time ago."

"A long time ago," Stocke echoed his words. "How long has this creepy game been going on?"

"We're not sure," Teo answered. "But my mistress has been suffering for a long, long time." He turned a pair of pleading eyes toward Stocke. "She cannot hold for much longer. Someone must free her from her prison or she is sure to lose her mind forever."

The gears began to click in Stocke's mind. "Skuld. Your mistress is Skuld, isn't she?"

Lippti smiled. "His mistress is Urd, actually—she governs the past. I am Skuld's attendant."

"Urd and Skuld," said Stocke. "The Black Chronicle and the White Chronicle. I'm right, aren't I?"

"Sharp as a tack, my boy!" Igor laughed.

"Long ago, an unknown person managed to trap our two mistresses in an attempt to gain control of their powers," said Lippti. "Since then, both Chronicles have been used to fulfill the petty ambitions of lesser men and women." She smiled sadly. "You understand now, why we wish to save our mistresses from such a fate?"

"Why couldn't you tell me before? Trust is a two-way street, you know."

Teo stared at him with narrowed, disdainful eyes. "You're not the first White Chronicle bearer to come to us. We've offered our aid to quite a number of them. And none chose to help us in return, even after we had told them of our plight. Can you fault us for believing that you would put your own interests before ours, as did all the others who came before you?"

Stocke considered Teo's words for a while. "No," he finally said. "I get your point. It's hard to trust people if you've been burned before." He began to rub his temples, sighing. "Anyway, when you say Urd and Skuld, you mean like… the real deal, right? Are there any other old Imperial gods running about?" The idea seemed ludicrous. And more than a little frightening. Some of the deities of the Imperial pantheon were a bit… terrifying, to say the least.

"You mean to ask if gods and goddesses really do exist?" Igor said, his grin growing huge.

Stocke nervously swallowed at the sight of that smile. "It's the question anybody sane would ask after getting some evidence that the freaking goddesses of fate actually do exist."

"What do you think, my boy?" Igor asked, still showing his teeth in that unsettling way of his.

Stocke threw up his hands in the air. "What I think doesn't matter! If gods really are a thing, then that changes everything!"

"Does it?" said Teo. "Humans often begin to believe in powerful, supernatural beings when faced with unexplained phenomena or abstract concepts."

"In other words," said Lippti, "do humans exist because of gods or do gods exist because of humans?"

"What?" said Stocke. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"We'll let you think on this as you go about your daily life," said Igor. "Until then, take good care, my boy!"

"Wait!" said Stocke. Already, Igor and the twins were zooming away from him, and his eclectic surroundings were being enshrouded in black; he was waking up right before they had told him everything, and he hated it. "No, stop, you haven't—"

His words were drowned out by the shrill cry of his alarm clock. Stocke groaned, burying his face into his pillow. He should have figured it would end this way. The three inhabitants of the Velvet Room seemed to take delight in his confusion (or rather, his frustration). They really needed another hobby.

It was a little strange to go through his usual morning routine. As Stocke ate breakfast with his mother and sister, he wondered how they'd react if he told them that at least two ancient goddesses apparently existed. That would earn him a trip to the shrink, he was sure of it.

He remained in a contemplative mood even as he sat next to his uncle in the man's car. Stocke put on his headphones on the way to school, unwilling to engage him in conversation. Heinrich, of course, never noticed his nephew's uneasiness. He was his characteristic nosy self—hell, he was even more talkative than usual, probably taking Stocke's stubborn silence as a challenge. Through the rear-view mirror, Stocke could see Eruca smiling. She found Stocke's torment rather amusing, it seemed.

Stocke offered the bluntest of farewells to his sister and uncle before rushing inside the school, hoping to find his friends before classes began. The few Shadows he met on the way made themselves scarce in his presence, seemingly terrified of him. Stocke eventually stumbled into Rosch and Sonja near their respective lockers. Sonja's eyes widened when she saw Stocke approaching.

"Stocke!" she said. "Are you alright? Are you sure that you…?"

"I'm fine," replied Stocke. "Listen, we should all meet before class. There's a lot we need to discuss."

"Uh, sure," Rosch agreed; still, he appeared as worried as Sonja.

"Can it just wait?" said Sonja. "There's only fifteen minutes before homeroom—oh, wait there's Raynie and Marco."

The two younger members of their group were indeed making their way toward them through the crowded locker hall.

"Whoa!" Raynie cried out at the sight of Stocke. "You look like hell, dude. Shouldn't you be at home resting?"

Sonja nodded emphatically. "That's what I keep telling him! You're always pushing yourself over the edge, Stocke! It's not good for you!"

"Let's go somewhere more private," Stocke muttered. He set out to find a more secluded corner of the locker hall, forcing his friends to follow him. "There. We have to establish a new strategy, now that we've found Shadows in another school." He frowned. "And now that we've made contact with not one, but two hostile Persona users."

"The two Persona users thing sure threw me off," said Raynie. "I thought we had like, one bad guy to catch!"

"It sure is freaky, yeah," added Rosch. "For the longest time, I thought the one responsible was someone from here. You know, not a student, more like..."

"A teacher," said Marco. "It could be a teacher. I mean, it's just a hunch, but…"

Sonja visibly shuddered. "That's a horrible thought. I mean, what kind of adult would do that to kids under their care?" She put her hand over her mouth and looked at Stocke. He only shrugged in response. "O-Oh. Right…"

"Whoever it is," Marco said, sounding slightly spiteful, "we have to put an end to them."

Raynie shot him a worried look. "Uh, sure. Definitely."

Sonja wrung her hands together, but said nothing. Rosch offered no response as well; again, he seemed lost in thoughts—dark, gloomy thoughts.

"I don't think we're nowhere as strong as those two Persona users we saw," Sonja finally said. "I'm afraid that… well, I'm afraid that if we have another go at them, someone might get really hurt. We have to be careful."

Her words were followed by a tense silence. Then, the bell rang.

"I guess this will be a discussion for later," Stocke said.

"Definitely later," said Rosch. "I have another appointment with my physical therapist after school. I'd like to join you guys, but…"

"That's okay," said Stocke. "It's for a good reason."

Rosch seemed conflicted. "Yeah, but I hate that the guy responsible for all this crap is still running around." Again, a cold anger flashed in his eyes. Stocke knew the name that would not leave his lips. Kiel was still in the hospital, tended faithfully by his grief-stricken parents.

"We should go, guys," said Sonja, "or else we're gonna be late." She left, closely followed by Rosch and Raynie. Only Marco remained still for a moment, silently staring at his feet as if he had not heard her words—or the first period bell, even. He seemed to be mulling over something.

"Are you alright, Marco?" asked Stocke.

Marco's stormy mood got immediately replaced by a look of confusion. "Huh? What makes you say that?"

"You just looked kinda down. Do you need to talk about it?"

"H-Huh?" Marco scratched his head sheepishly. "Does it really show? People don't usually notice it when I'm not feeling well."

"Is that so?" Stocke said, frowning. "Well, if you have anything on your mind, just say it. It's no good to just bottle it up."

Marco nervously laughed. "Okay, okay! I understand! If there's something, I'll say it, don't worry!"

"Good," said Stocke. He paused, remembering with a slight pang the horrifying circumstances that had led to Marco's arrival on the team. He felt his features softening. "We're all in this together. Don't forget it."

Marco gave a wavering grin. "Got it. Thanks, buddy."

At the end of the day, Stocke's friends scattered to the four winds, citing various reasons as to why they could not stick around. With a heavy heart, Stocke met up with his sister outside of school. Eruca was obviously curious as to why he was alone, but thankfully said nothing. Instead, she chatted about her new duties as class president. Stocke listened to her with an inattentive ear. They reached their uncle's car not long afterward; still, fifteen more minutes passed, and Heinrich did not arrive.

Eruca frowned. "That's odd," she said. "It's not like him to be late."

"I'll go look for him," Stocke said, shrugging. "Stay here in case he comes back."

He spent the trip back to school without sparing a glance for anyone. The door leading to the faculty office was slightly ajar. Stocke groaned when he heard a certain voice coming from within.

"Funny how we've never taken the time to chat a bit," Protea was saying. "Why didn't you think of introducing yourself the moment you learned I worked here, I wonder?"

Stocke could not hear her interlocutor's reply. Soon, however, Protea was laughing.

"Don't say that!" she said as Stocke pushed the door open. "We're practically family, you know!"

Stocke did not have to hear or see to whom she was speaking to know who it was. Protea was sitting on the edge of his uncle's desk, smiling like the cat that had gotten the cream. Heinrich's mouth was smiling as well, but his eyes remained cold with indifference. Still, Protea seemed unaware that she was being all but ignored. Heinrich's face eventually brightened with genuine fondness when he caught sight of Stocke.

"Ernst, my boy!" Heinrich got out of his chair. "I guess you and your sister were tired of waiting for me?"

"Yes," Stocke said bluntly. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were busy…"

Heinrich laughed. "Absolutely not! I wasn't doing anything important, really."

Protea gave him a peeved look. In response, Heinrich's grin just grew wider (and meaner).

"Let's go, then," said Stocke, and they both left before the vice-principal could get another word in edgewise.

"Impeccable timing as always, dear boy!" Heinrich told Stocke. "What an infuriating woman!"

"Was she bothering you? What did she want?"

Heinrich waved a hand around. "To talk about your father, of all things! I told her I wanted nothing to do with him, plainly, but she would not hear a word. Seems to me like he's gotten himself into some trouble." Again, his face showed a spiteful sort of glee. "Good for him."

The coldness in his voice left Stocke uneasy. "That's all she asked about?"

Heinrich snorted. "She also asked me to go out for drinks. Wretched woman. What she lacks in subtlety she instead makes up for it in stupidity." He cocked his head to one side. "Though with some tweaking I could almost make it look like she was harassing me. With her gone, that would be one less nuisance to deal with."

Stocke rolled his eyes. "You're horrible," he said in a deadpan tone. The snow-covered courtyard greeted his eyes as they got out of the school. Stocke gathered his courage before asking, "What's up with my dad, anyway? Where could have he gone?"

Heinrich looked at him with an inscrutable expression. "Why do you care? As long as the man is out of our hair…" His brow furrowed in a subtle frown. "Is something going on, my boy? You've been acting odd, lately. If you ever see something strange happening, you can tell me. You know you can trust me with your troubles."

By then, they had nearly reached Uncle Heinrich's car. Eruca waved to them, her cheeks pink from the chill.

Stocke stopped. Heinrich turned to look at him, frown deepening.

"Strange," said Stocke. "What do you mean by strange?"

Heinrich shrugged. "Well, out of the ordinary. What else could I mean?"

Eruca looked curiously from her brother to her uncle. Her smile began to waver.

"Everything's fine," Stocke said brusquely. Something was making him on edge, an impression that left him colder than the snowflakes melting on his coat. "Nothing's going on, really."

"Is that so? I've heard from the grapevine that you're having a bit of trouble with some of your classes. That's not like you at all." Heinrich walked up to Stocke. "There must be a reason why—"

Oh, for the love of— "I'm okay, really. You don't have to worry about me."

Heinrich laughed, but the sound was about as joyful as nails on chalkboard. "I'm your uncle, worrying about you is part of the job description! I just want to make sure that you're thinking seriously about your future." He gave an ugly grin. "Just, don't become a teacher, you know? It's a sorry, thankless job. Don't make the mistakes I did."

"Don't drop out of high school, you mean," muttered Stocke.

There was a shocked silence from Heinrich's part for a moment. Then, in a strange voice that sent chills down Stocke's back, he said, "What did you just say?"

The snarky retort that was about to leave Stocke's lips instead died in his throat. From behind, Eruca gasped. Stocke turned his face away, unwilling to meet Heinrich's gaze, "Nothing. Just forget about it."

He could not stand to look at the cold, naked fury etched on his uncle's features. Heinrich shared no physical resemblance whatsoever with his brother… but now, all of Stocke's instincts, finely honed after a childhood spent navigating a certain man's sudden, exploding bouts of rage, told him to run. Somehow, he was also keenly aware of Eruca as she stood behind him; out of the corner of his eye, he saw her tightening her hands around her bag's shoulder strap. Her horrified expression was a mirror of his own.

After a while, the anger left Heinrich's face, and the man blinked, as if waking from a dream. Then he said, hoarsely, "You're aware that I just want you to stay safe, don't you? Both of you. If something happened to either of you, I swear I would…" He shook his head, features hardening once more. "Hmph. Just get in the car."

They spent the trip home in silence. Stocke did his best to remain expressionless as he watched out the window; still, he often stole glances toward his uncle. Heinrich kept his eyes to the road, never acknowledging Stocke or Eruca's presences.

"It could be a teacher. I mean, it's just a hunch, but…"

Stocke grit his teeth. No! Uncle Heinrich wasn't involved in that mess, he couldn't be! The man wasn't exactly the epitome of kindness, but he would never deliberately hurt someone, even to obtain a power as potent as the ability to change the past.

…would he?

Stocke did not share his suspicions the next day.

Besides, none among his friends seemed keen on broaching the topic of their unknown adversary. They went to class without uttering a word about Personas and Shadows, acting as if the last three months or so had never happened. In a way, it was eerie. Their somber, anxious moods clashed horribly with the general cheer displayed by the rest of the school in light of the upcoming Yule holidays.

After school, Stocke ignored Sonja's orders to go home and get more rest, deciding instead to head for work. In front of the bookstore was parked a familiar car with black tinted windows. Stocke's brows came close together as he walked toward the Gutral man waiting by the vehicle.

"Hello, Mr. Gafka. Is something the matter?"

The man raised a bushy brow. "Perceptive, are you?" He sighed. "I'm looking for the little lady. She ditched school again today."

Despite feeling a brief jolt of panic, Stocke managed to keep his voice steady, "I'll help you find her. She might be still around."

Gafka seemed a little relieved. "Good. Here is my number. Call me if you find her."

Immediately, Stocke set off to find Aht. She was not in the bookstore, as he had hoped; thankfully, Mr. and Mrs. Norton said they would call him if they saw her. Stocke first went to her school, trying to find her telltale horns in the thick of all the elementary-aged children playing in the courtyard or waiting for their parents. He had no such luck. Heart lurching, he was about to head back to the bookstore when he saw something odd out of the corner of his eye. There was a smaller figure hidden among the students pouring out of Alma Middle High. Stocke acted on his hunch, making his way toward Kiel's school.

Soon, it became apparent that Stocke's intuition was right. "Aht!" he called out, loudly so his voice could be heard above the cacophony of sounds coming from the bunch of excited middle schoolers. "Aht, can you hear me?"

Aht started, and she whipped her head to look toward Stocke. She grimaced as she took notice of his expression.

"O-Oh," she said as Stocke reached her, "hi, S-Stocke!"

"Aht," said Stocke, "why didn't you go to school today? I thought you really would have known better that to make your family worry again."

Aht's lower lip wobbled. "I didn't mean to! It's just…" She glanced behind her, toward the entrance of the school

Toward a lone, lumpish figure made of black mist…

Not a second later, and Aht was looking back at Stocke. She was trying to replace her fearful expression with an innocent look, without much success.

"Wait," Stocke said. "Aht, did you just…?"

"Did I just what?" Despite her attempted nonchalance, there was still a hint of fright in her tone. "I get it, Mr. Gafka is angry at me! Can we just go now?"

Stocke did not answer. Then, with a sigh, he led her away from the school entrance, so they would not be heard by curious middle schoolers. He put a hand on her shoulder. "Aht, I need you to be honest with me. Did you see something strange lately? Something that scared you?"

Her eyes filled her tears. "No! There's nothing going on! Please, Stocke, let's just go home!"

"You can see these things, can't you? Those monsters—"

"No!" Aht stomped on her little feet. "There are no monsters! I didn't see anything!"

"Aht," Stocke said firmly, "this is important. To stop people from being hurt, I need to know more about them. I need to find out why they started appearing and who's responsible."

Now the tears were falling from her eyes. "Why does it have to be you? It's dangerous, Stocke, you could get hurt! You should run, far, far away so the monsters won't catch you!"

Stocke's mouth tugged upward into a wry, joyless grin. "I can't do that. It's hard to explain, but I'm the only one who can really put an end to this mess."

"But you're not the only one who can see them! There was this old guy in glasses creeping around—" She clamped her hands over her mouth, giving a little hiccup of distress.

Stocke sucked in a sharp breath. "An old guy? Can you describe him to me?"

"I said no! Stocke, please, just forget about it!"

Stocke thought back to his earlier suspicion. He took his phone, circling through the few photos he had. He stopped on a candid snapshot of his family taken on his uncle's birthday. Heinrich's face was barely in the frame. He was smiling slightly, even though he had not been too keen on being in the family picture.

"That man," Stocke said, pointing to his uncle, "is he the one you saw?"

Aht's eyes widened. She gaped at Stocke, seemingly confused. Then, she shook her head, vehemently. "No! Forget it! I don't want you to get in trouble!"

Stocke glanced at his phone again. Somehow, looking at his uncle's mild, contented smile left him feeling empty and cold. "Fine," he managed. "Let's just get you home, then."

Before he could move, Aht reached forward, circling his torso with her little arms. She was now sobbing. Stocke patted her head; he could not find any word to comfort her, not while he felt like he'd been punched in the gut himself.

Stocke got home not long afterward. His encounter with Aht had left him so rattled that he had asked Mr. and Mrs. Norton for a night off. Hundreds of thoughts battled for dominance as he ate supper with his mother and sister. Yes, his uncle had gone to that Granorgite school where several students had died after someone had failed to use the Black Chronicle's powers. Yes, his uncle was a teacher at St. Noah's High, a perfect position to scout for potential victims. Yes, he was strange and secretive and sometimes unpleasant.

But Uncle Heinrich would not be callous enough to sacrifice someone's well-being for what was essentially a selfish desire to reshape reality… would he?

Stocke stood out of his seat, unable to finish his meal. Instead, he fought to keep himself from being sick.

"Ernst?" Sophia asked. "Is something wrong?"

"I'm just not hungry," Stocke replied mechanically. "And I just remembered something. I have to go to Uncle Heinrich's place. He promised me he would help me with schoolwork."

"Really?" Eruca tilted her head to the side. "But you're not even in his class. He's a teacher in my year, remember?"

"Long story," Stocke said with a shrug. "See you later."

Only when he was out of the house did Stocke remember that he had left the White Chronicle on his desk. It was strange not sensing its now familiar weight in his bag. Strange, and slightly worrying. Stocke tried not to think about it so much. He had come to depend on the damn thing so much in the last few months…

Stocke texted his uncle while he rode the bus. I'm sorry for coming unannounced so late, he told Heinrich, but I have something to ask you. For a moment, Stocke wondered if honesty was his best course of option. Finally, he decided against it, writing instead, Something about school.

Not long after, Uncle Heinrich texted him back. Questions are always welcome! I'll be glad to help with your schoolwork!

Stocke looked sadly at the words on his screen. Perhaps he was just being a touch paranoid. He hoped he was being a touch paranoid.

Still, the moment he set foot outside the bus, his senses went on high alert. It did not take him long to realize that it was Baldr's presence, reacting to an unknown danger.

Stocke cursed under his breath as he walked. The bus stop was a few blocks away from his uncle's house. All the way, he felt as if he was being watched—as if he was being followed.

Stocke whirled on his feet to look behind him. There was no one. Still, his heart was pounding. He broke into a run, all sense of stealth forgotten. He skidded to a halt, however, when his surroundings began to change. Gone where the carefully maintained lawns and cozy cottage homes; now the starry sky was coloured an eye-blinding shade of green, while every building had grown impossibly high, towering over him in a manner that pressed down his chest, making it hard to breath. Stocke swore as he stepped into a puddle of a black ooze of unknown origin.

Before he could move, a pale figure dropped out of the sky, and something long and blunt hit Stocke in the stomach. The air was knocked out of his lungs as he fell to his knees. Out of blurry eyes, he saw two people approaching him. As his vision cleared, Stocke felt shock, confusion and fear all in short succession. He knew the two men standing in front of him. He saw their faces every day.

Despite the severity of the situation, a bit of relief fluttered through Stocke. Then, he thought, Uncle Heinrich really isn't the one who—

"Hm," Dias said with a sneer, "not the prey we were seeking when we began our vigil." Behind him hovered the Persona who had assaulted Stocke. He had a noble bearing, with roses and thorns expertly weaved in the pale lilac fabric of his coat. In each hand he held long, curved swords. The blades, decorated with a floral pattern as well, gleamed slightly. In a blinding flash, the figure was gone, leaving Stocke feeling even more apprehensive than before.

Selvan sent his companion a fondly exasperated look. "You fail to see the opportunity in our grasp, my dear. I sent you to intercept the boy because he will make excellent bait. Perhaps dangling him in front of that… beast will temper its more violent inclinations. I told you, facing that one head-on would be tantamount to suicide."

Dias grimaced. "True. It's why you would have us keep to the shadows like a pair of cravens." His beautiful features twisted in a self-satisfied grin. "On the other hand, perhaps young Mr. Heiss could help us make that other wretched coward come out of hiding."

"I am not optimistic on that count," Selvan said dryly. "That sorry excuse for a man doesn't strike me as the kind to care about his spawn."

Dias kneeled to Stocke's eye-level. "What about the White Chronicle? He gave it to you, didn't he?"

Selvan only frowned. Perhaps he had somehow anticipated the smug reply that was about to leave Stocke's mouth.

"What White Chronicle?" Stocke said, keeping his face blank. "What are you talking about?"

"You've had contact with your father before!" Dias said, his voice rising slightly in intensity. "Don't play coy with us, you detestable brat!"

"Calm down, Dias. We don't need to make an enemy out of the boy."

"Really? He's opposed us plenty of times as it is!"

Selvan sighed. "Look through his bag, Dias."

Dias roughly grabbed Stocke's messenger bag. His scowl deepened as he threw its content on the floor.

"Nothing!" he spat. "I am starting to be at my wits' end with this nonesense!"

"Perhaps he hid it elsewhere," Selvan said placidly. "The boy is not stupid. Unlike that father of his."

"Ah, yes," Dias said with a dark chuckle. "The man who was fooled by Protea of all people." All manner of amusement then fled from his features. Stocke backed away a little, feeling cold all over. "Well then, it is of no matter. The brat could still be useful in the manner you mentioned."

"Indeed," said Selvan. "That monster's little pup could serve us well if we take away his claws. Do your worst, Heimdallr."

Behind Selvan flared a characteristic burst of blue light. A figure wearing violet minister's robes appeared near him. In his gauntleted hands, he held a staff adorned with leaves and small red fruits. Stocke felt his hands tightening into fists. It was the Persona he'd spied in Kiel's school, not long ago.

Before he could say anything, however, Stocke was overwhelmed by a sudden burst of pain, like a sharp current coursing through every nerve of his body. Dimly, he realized that Baldr had appeared behind him. Still, the Persona showed none of the proud demeanour he usually displayed. His light had grown dimmer, and he held his head with both hands, dropping his shield and sword in the process. Baldr's body thrashed, and to Stocke's great horror, protrusions began to form beneath his clothes, as if something was trying to burst out of his skin. Stocke managed to stifle a scream by clenching his jaw tight. A black mist was spreading around Baldr, and the Persona threw back his head in a silent show of agony.

"Strange," commented Selvan. "This usually takes less time. The boy's got a strong link with his Persona, it seems." He grimaced in distaste. "If only this process could be less… unseemly…"

"Don't let yourself be weighed down by sentiment," said Dias coldly. "Remember our objective. We will get justice for the infamy that was done to us."

Baldr's limbs were now stuck in unnatural angles; through their mental link, Stocke could hear him screaming. His eyes blurred by pain, Stocke saw Selvan's scowl turning into a look of confusion.

"Why isn't this working?" the man said, a hint of panic slipping in his tone. "Heimdallr never had trouble controlling Shadows before!"

This time, Stocke could not help himself. His mouth opened, and the screams came ripping out of his throat. It seemed as if an invisible hand had burrowed inside his chest, trying to now tear away something from deep within him. Revulsion rippled across his skin as he fought off the invading presence. Despite the agony, he noted the apprehension now showing on Selvan's face. Stocke sent all the strength he could muster from his battered body toward Baldr. In an act of defiance, the Persona managed to grab his sword, swinging it toward Heimdallr—

—no, toward Selvan. In the haze of pain, Baldr had missed his target. Stocke felt a sharp jolt of dread as he saw Selvan stumbling back, his eyes widening in terror.

The sword burst into flames as it connected with the man's face. Stocke felt rather than saw the wound; he smelled the burning skin, heard Selvan scream as splatters of blood flew into the air. Shame came washing over Stocke with a wave of nausea. Selvan dropped to his knees, hiding his ruined, mangled face with his hands. Beside him, Dias was crying out in worry. Selvan never noted his companion's concern and fear. He was screaming himself hoarse, seemingly oblivious to everything but the pain.

Behind Selvan, Heimdallr began to change.

The Persona's shape grew in size, a darkness now shrouding him. His robes—once so elegant, so richly embroidered—had begun to tear in some places. A black ooze seeped out of him, like blood out of a wound, staining the beautiful violet fabric. Dias let out a gasp.

"No," he whispered, "no, no, no, my friend, you're stronger than that! Don't let it take control!"

Selvan was deaf to his friend's plea. The shadowy creature that had once been his Persona gave a shrill, hair-rising cry. It fixed on Stocke a sightless stare; its eyes had been gouged out, great trails of black blood pouring out of the sockets. The staff it held had turned into a wooden spear, its tip as sharp as an arrowhead. The monster shrieked, and Stocke's breath caught in his throat as he realized—too late—that the point of the weapon was fast approaching…

A series of images—faded, like old beloved photographs—flashed through Stocke's mind as the spear came hurtling toward him.

A young woman singing her son to sleep, brushing the golden hair out of his eyes and wiping the tears from his eyes.

A boy reading aloud to his little sister, finding joy and warmth in the smile that lit up her face.

A man and his nephew play-fighting with rolled-up newspapers, the two of them exchanging witty quips with every jab.

Two children cheering on their friend as he tested his new prosthetic and the boy rewarding their encouragement with a shy grin.

A group of teenagers playing cards and stuffing their mouths with Halloween candy under their leader's amused (and affectionate) gaze.

The same people, unaware of the tragedy about to unfold, waiting and worrying and wondering why he was not coming back home—

No, Stocke thought, despairing, I can't do that to them…

The thought turned into a plea, one that was as fleeting and precious as a candle's flame in the face of upcoming oblivion.

A second later, and Stocke felt no more.