The names were added.
The lists updated.
The scouts moved on—efficient, clinical, already scanning the next team entry.
But not everyone in the chamber moved with them.
Far above the seated tiers, where the light dimmed and the projection glows didn't quite reach, a lone figure stood near the upper catwalk—behind the reinforced viewing shield, where only those with high clearance had access.
He hadn't spoken a word all day.
But now—
Now he stared.
Through the shifting feed. Through the echo of thunder spells and spear strikes. Through the rising hum of scout chatter and system resets.
Straight at Ethan Hartley.
His pupils were slit.
A thin vertical line of gold gleamed inside each eye, refracted through the crystalline lens like twin blades drawn halfway from their sheaths.
His breath caught—once.
A crack escaped his throat.
Soft.
But fractured.
"…It's him."
The words weren't spoken with wonder.
They dropped like broken glass.
