Seeing the Eidolon Watcher before him, George didn't feel fear. No threat. No ill intent. Only a still, sacred pressure—like standing in the nave of a forgotten cathedral, with ancient eyes silently watching. The creature didn't even acknowledge him. He was invisible in its perception, a whisper outside the range of its mission.
'So this is what's been inside her,'George thought, eyes narrowing slightly.
'Not a mind. Not a soul. Just a rule. Like gravity. It doesn't choose—it obeys'
The entity had seeped into Leilah so thoroughly it had become indistinguishable from her. Not in form, but in presence. But George's Record—the singular power only he held—had already reached inside, wrapped around the foreign entity, and rewritten its claim.
It was now his.
Information flooded him through the feedback—raw impressions, unintelligent behaviors, mechanical consistency. The entity wasn't thinking. It was following.
'It doesn't want. It doesn't decide. It only executes. A law cast down, like a celestial function, repeating over and over until someone like me breaks the loop.'
Now fully anchored to it, George activated [Serene Beat]—not in a whisper like before, but a pulse, full and rich. A sacred frequency thrummed from his Record, pouring into her soul space like a stream of golden light through cracked stained glass. Her soul space shimmered with starlight, and the dissonant echo of the Watcher began to tremble beneath the wave.
Even if it wasn't the full Record of Serene Beat, the portion he sent would be enough to begin.
Slowly. Deliberately. It would unwind the Watcher's influence, layer by layer.
'Not all battles need to be won with force. Some are won with patience. And precision'
Before withdrawing from her soul space, George touched his consciousness to the Watcher's own. And there—he rewrote the rules. He sealed its eyes. From now on, no visions it captured would be sent to any other being.
Its vision belonged to George, and George alone.
'You see for me now. You report to no god, no anomaly, no authority. I've hijacked your function'
'I don't know what's watching from above, but now I can watch through it'
He let the thought settle like ink in water. A quiet satisfaction filled his chest—not pride, not arrogance, but the grim relief of knowing something terrible was now contained. For now.
His intuition pieced the fragments together: the Watcher wasn't alive. It was a conduit. A hollow mechanism, installed to overwrite sentience and transmit what it witnessed to a higher layer. Whether that higher force was a divine being or a sentient machine mimicking a god... he couldn't say yet.
But it watched.
And it replaced.
And now—it couldn't.
As his presence entered deeper into its machinery of thought, something shifted again.
Suddenly, he was seeing through Leilah's eyes.
In front of her—him—George sat on the ground. Eyes closed. One hand lifted mid-air in a gesture of stillness, like a monk in silent prayer.
Still. Unmoving. Radiating peace that clashed against the remnants of mental invasion swirling inside her.
George's breath caught as he felt the pull—his consciousness detaching from the soul space. The sensation was like falling upward, as if being gently reeled back into flesh. A weight returned to his limbs. The stillness of the real world wrapped around him again.
He opened his eyes.
Leilah sat across from him, her posture rigid, eyes wide and anxious. Her hands trembled faintly in her lap as if she were holding something in—fear, maybe. Or shame. Her lips parted, but no words came.
George blinked slowly, adjusting to the light, then offered her a soft smile. Not distant, not superior—human.
"Don't worry, Miss Leilah," he said, voice calm but firm. "The anomaly inside you is partially stripped away."
A pause. She looked at him like someone hoping for absolution but too afraid to ask.
"If you hold yourself steady," he continued, "if you believe the mind is still yours—it will be. It's slow. But it will unravel."
She nodded faintly, the tension in her shoulders easing just a little. Just enough.
Inside, George remained quiet—but his thoughts whispered louder than his words.
'It's not gone Not yet But it can't speak to anything else now. It can't steal her gaze. It will be now under my command '
---
George guided Leilah through the tranquil corridor of the mansion, his pace measured, unhurried. The ambiance remained calm—muted lighting, sound-dampened walls, and the subtle scent of sandalwood. It was designed to ease disoriented minds. Designed for moments like this.
When they reached the front room, he turned to face her.
"Your internal structure is stabilizing," he said evenly. "The anomaly's influence has been significantly diminished, though it hasn't been eradicated. That will take time—and consistency."
Leilah clutched the strap of her bag, her brow creasing. "How will I know if… if it's still in me?"
"You'll notice disruptions in your emotional rhythm—shifts in thought patterns that feel foreign or misaligned with your baseline self-perception." He paused, observing her face. "That discomfort is a sign of progress. Your system is beginning to reject what doesn't belong."
She nodded faintly, though her fingers trembled slightly.
"And if it—returns?"
George's expression remained composed, his tone gentle but precise.
"If there is a resurgence of symptoms, contact me immediately. But understand this: as long as you assert cognitive authority—anchor yourself in your identity—the anomaly cannot fully reintegrate."
She looked down, then back up. There was still uncertainty in her, but also the faintest flicker of control.
George gave a small nod of acknowledgment.
"You've taken the first step. That's more than most."
The door unlocked with a soft click behind her.
"You may go now, Miss Leilah. Follow the regimen I've prescribed—structured sleep,and keep your thoughts recorded daily, handwritten."
She stepped out into the sunlight. The door shut with a gentle finality.
Silence settled once again.
George stood still for a moment. Then, as he turned around, the sound of footsteps echoed behind him.
A broad-shouldered man in a flawlessly tailored suit approached, each step deliberate, his presence as sharp as the crease in his jacket.