Iris remained in the carriage, her mind initially elsewhere, lost in the weight of what had transpired in that cursed apartment. But gradually, as the reality of Luke's words filtered through her consciousness, the true magnitude of what he had accomplished began to settle upon her like a descending weight. She was surprised. Genuinely surprised in ways she had not anticipated or expected. The implications of what he had survived began to reshape her understanding of who he was and what he might become in the hands of proper training and guidance from her organization.
Luke had fought and survived against an experienced Shadowborn—a creature of immense power and training that few mortals could even comprehend. It was rare, exceptionally rare, for anyone to accomplish such a feat without formal training, without years of preparation, without the structured knowledge that came from belonging to an organization like hers. The fact that he had managed it at all was extraordinary and spoke to something fundamental about his nature and potential.
And when she had reached that apartment, she had seen Mr. Waldron Plato in his young form, the form in which he possessed immense power and strength beyond mortal measure and comprehension. To have endured against such an opponent and lived was remarkable in ways that suggested something deeper at work, something more significant than mere chance or luck.
She sat in the carriage, turning the implications over in her mind with careful deliberation and strategic thinking. Perhaps he had umbra—an innate capacity for shadow energy that existed dormant within him, waiting for the right trigger to awaken it completely. Without any formal training, without years of practice or guidance from experienced practitioners, he had somehow managed to interact with and utilize the essence he had drunk. If he possessed natural affinity for shadow energy, his potential could be extraordinary and far-reaching in ways that benefited her organization.
Her organization was always searching for such talent, always seeking individuals who could grow into true Shadowborn with minimal training. If he could be trained properly, developed under the right guidance and structure, he might become invaluable to everything they were working toward. The implications stretched before her like a map of future possibilities.
Just as Luke was about to enter the building where he had apparently lived before, Iris's voice cut through the air with sharp authority and command. "Stop. Come back to the carriage."
Luke turned immediately, confusion evident on his exhausted face, but he complied without argument or hesitation, climbing back into the carriage where Iris waited with her newfound assessment of his value and potential.
"I just need a little time. I'm hungry... sorry," Luke apologized, his voice tentative and uncertain, clearly unaware of why she had called him back so abruptly from his departure.
Iris simply nodded, watching him with new eyes that assessed his value differently now, with fresh understanding. She did not explain her sudden change of mind or reasoning, and Luke did not press for answers or clarification. He departed once more, disappearing into the building that held his former life and forgotten memories.
Twenty minutes passed in silence. Then thirty. Then nearly forty. Iris remained in the carriage, waiting patiently for Luke to emerge from the apartment building, but he did not reappear as expected. He had gone straight into the apartment and vanished entirely, swallowed by the structure as though it had consumed him completely. She was left alone with her thoughts and the growing afternoon light filtering through the carriage windows.
She wondered if she should take Luke directly to the street where she had found him lying unconscious, reclaiming what information she could before complications could arise. But now that she understood the larger pattern at work, the connections that linked him to something far greater, should she help him discover the truth himself? Or would it be better to let him work through the mystery on his own?
Probably not. It was not her role to spoon-feed him revelations like a parent to a child. He would need to earn his understanding through his own efforts and struggles and discoveries. That would make him stronger in the end.
But as she sat in the growing silence of the carriage, another thought emerged with clarity and force. Everything about him suggested he was a prodigy—someone with natural talent that exceeded what years of conventional training could normally produce in ordinary practitioners. There had to be a greater cause related to him, something larger than coincidence or bad luck. He was connected to something significant and profound. Perhaps, through him, her organization might uncover something even more significant about the shadow energy itself and its nature.
She let that thought settle and fade into the back of her mind for now. There was no point in speculating further without more concrete information to guide her reasoning.
The reason she was not hurrying back to her organization was practical and strategic in nature. Her enemies had likely already changed their locations by now, could have prepared to leave the city entirely in anticipation. Preparing for a train departure required extensive time for ticketing and arrangements and gathering supplies. She possessed plenty of time available. Time was one resource she held in abundance right now.
Luke bathed away the grime and blood that clung stubbornly to his skin like a second layer of existence. He changed into clean clothes that he found in the apartment's bedroom and approached the mirror mounted on the wall to see how he truly looked beneath all the accumulated trauma and exhaustion.
He was not striking or memorable. His features were average at best—a sharp jawline that provided some structure, a whitish-yellow complexion that spoke of time away from sunlight, simple shaped eyes that held no particular distinction. His hair was black, dark as midnight, and most of his face carried soft features except for that singular sharp jawline.
As he observed himself in the mirror with growing detachment, water dripped from his wet hair and descended over his eyes, causing them to sting sharply with discomfort. Annoyed by the sensation, he simply slid his hands over his face to wipe away the moisture. But some water remained stubbornly clinging to his skin. He pressed harder, wiping with more force and deliberation.
The moment his hands left contact with his face, something unexpected and shocking happened.
Something came away with them—a transparent thing, barely visible to the eye, impossibly thin and delicate. Luke stared at it in confusion and growing alarm, uncertain what he was holding in his trembling fingers. He touched his face again carefully, testing the texture, and then deliberately pulled backward with all his strength.
The transparent substance came away from his skin in a single continuous piece.
He looked toward the mirror in shock that cascaded through his entire being. His facial features had completely changed and transformed. It was a mask—a thin, transparent mask that had covered his face for an unknown length of time, invisible to casual observation and observation. Beneath it was a face entirely different from what he had believed himself to possess.
He was far more striking and handsome than he could have imagined or hoped. His features were sharp and chiseled, defined by high cheekbones and symmetrical lines. His eyes were deep-set and piercing, a striking color framed by thick, well-defined brows that gave him a focused, intense expression. His nose was straight and prominent, leading to a well-defined philtrum and full lips set firmly. A strong, angular jawline framed it all with precision, and his hair was a sandy-blonde color that fell in textured layers over his forehead, giving him a rugged, brooding aesthetic.
But the discovery did not excite him or fill him with vanity. Instead, it deepened his suspicion of himself, of his own nature, of everything he did not understand. He tried drawing the transparent substance from other regions of his body methodically and carefully, testing his arms and hands, his neck and legs. But the mask appeared only on his face, nowhere else on his entire body.
He was uncertain about the reasoning behind such a mask. Perhaps the old man had applied it for some purpose or hidden agenda that he could not yet comprehend. But when he thought back to his first reflection in the mirror, he realized he could not clearly remember his own face with any certainty. His memories of himself had always been vague and indistinct, obscured by time and trauma and the fog of his broken consciousness.
Perhaps it had been applied when he was lying unconscious in the street. Or perhaps it had been there since before. There was no way to know without gathering more information.
He needed to ask Iris to take him back to that street. Perhaps being there would trigger memories, would give him hints about who he truly was and why someone would hide his appearance.
And he would not expose this face to anyone yet, not until he fully understood the implications and the reasoning behind his concealment. There had to be a greater reason behind the mask's existence. If he revealed himself unknowingly to the wrong person, it might cause disaster—for himself, for Iris, for forces he could not yet imagine or comprehend.
Better to keep this discovery to himself. This face could serve as another identity, an unknown personality he could deploy when necessary. He could maintain two identities depending on circumstances.
He would maintain his false identity for now. It was the safer choice, the more strategic option.
He finished eating and bathing, attended to his needs. Only then did he step out and climb down the stairs. He exited the apartment building into the afternoon light.
He stepped out into rays of sun falling from the sky, golden and warm upon his skin. The light felt strange and almost alien against him. Everything was different now, fundamentally transformed by his discovery and the weight of understanding what had been hidden from him.
"Sorry... I took more time than planned. Now I would not bother you," he stated firmly as he stood beside the carriage window where Iris reclined, showing signs of exhaustion.
He added carefully, "But can you please help me for one thing? Can you drop me at the street where I was found unconscious? I want to gather some important memories."
As he spoke, Iris reached into her satchel and withdrew a sealed container—a liquid identical to what Luke had encountered at the old man's place. She offered it with a gesture leaving no room for refusal.
He hesitated. "Please don't tell me that we have to drink this liquid."
"You do need to," Iris replied, her voice cutting and direct. "At least believe the woman who saved you."
"But what is it?" Luke pressed, his hand withdrawn from the container.
"I'll need ten hours to explain it to you. So just drink this!"
Luke took it hesitantly from her hand, his fingers trembling slightly with uncertainty and apprehension. What realistic choice did he have standing there before her? He raised it slowly to his lips and gulped the entire liquid down in one continuous motion without hesitation. It was the worst thing he had ever tasted in his entire existence—bitter and acrid and burning like liquid fire as it descended through his throat with terrible intensity.
But something strange and unexpected occurred immediately upon swallowing the liquid, something that defied all rational explanation and understanding of the world as he knew it.
The world began to blur and distort around him, reality becoming hazy and indistinct. His body no longer responded to his commands. He fell, unable to control the collapse of his limbs. At that moment, the world became fully black as consciousness abandoned him entirely and completely.
Everything faded to nothing at all, and Luke's mind descended into complete and total darkness, abandoning consciousness entirely.