Dawktrep steps into the cold silence of the evening, the dim lights of Ferran’s exhibition flickering behind him. His shadow stretches out long and uneven on the cobblestones as he walks, shoulders hunched as if carrying an unseen weight. "It’s funny, isn’t it? You go into a room expecting answers, and you leave with more questions than you walked in with. The Bible of Terry… the supposed explanation of everything. Except all it explained was how much of a mess we are. A world that wasn’t built right… people who weren’t built right. Me." He stops walking, his gaze lifting to the sky. The stars are faint, almost hesitant, as though they, too, are flawed. "Terry created balance. And we destroyed it. Maybe that’s why I feel it all the time—that creeping unease, that weight in my chest that never goes away. The doom. Because I’m what’s left of the balance he tried to make. Me, a fractured mirror… two halves that don’t even fit together anymore." His voice trembles, and then softens, almost as if he’s speaking to himself. "Do you think it’s my fault?" The question lingers in the air, but it’s IBM who answers, calm and methodical. "Fault is irrelevant. What matters is that you must try to fix it. The world may be flawed, but you can’t let that stop you. You have to do good, Dawktrep. You have to keep striving, even if it feels impossible." DBM’s voice cuts in, sharp and almost mocking. "Fix it? Fix what, exactly? Look around, IBM. This world is broken beyond repair, and you think Dawktrep—Dawktrep, of all people—can save it? No. The best he can do is look good trying. Be the hero they want, even if it’s hollow. Nobody will care if he’s ‘good.’ They’ll care if he’s enough." IBM’s response is swift, almost exasperated. "You’re wrong. He doesn’t need to be perfect. He just needs to be better than this. Better than you." "Better than you," DBM retorts, their voice dripping with disdain. The argument swirls like a storm in Dawktrep’s mind. He presses his hands to his temples, his breath quickening as their voices grow louder. "Stop it. Stop it!" And then, silence. The only sound is the faint rustling of the wind. Dawktrep exhales shakily, lowering his hands, his voice barely above a whisper. "You both talk like you know what’s right. Like you’re the voices of reason, the guiding stars. But you don’t see it, do you? You’re both just as broken as this world. You pull me in opposite directions, but neither of you knows the way forward. Maybe… maybe there isn’t one." He starts walking again, his steps slow and deliberate. "Ferran said Terry gave up on us. That he regrets making this place. Maybe that’s why I feel it all the time—the doom. Because even if Terry’s locked us in here, I think he’s still watching. Waiting for the last of us to fall apart so he can finally close the book on this whole mess." Dawktrep pauses, glancing back over his shoulder at the faint glow of the exhibition behind him. His voice turns quieter, almost fragile. "But I don’t want to fall apart. Not yet. Not when there’s still something left. Even if it’s flawed, even if it’s broken… it’s all we’ve got." He looks up at the stars again, a flicker of determination in his eyes. "If Terry’s watching, then fine. Let him see. Let him see what’s left of the balance he abandoned. Not perfect, not whole… but still standing." And with that, Dawktrep walks away into the night, his steps resolute and unyielding, even as the world continues to crumble around him.
