Elias Wren stood at the threshold of the Confession Chamber, silent. His eyes scanned the room, jaw clenched, fists balled. The scars along his arms—twisting, shiny reminders of flame—reflected the sterile light.
He didn't wait for permission. He walked in.
The door sealed like a guillotine.
"Elias Wren. Age thirty-four. Guilt designation: Orchestrated destruction of government property and unintentional civilian casualties. Status: Confession required."
He didn't look up. "Yeah," he muttered. "Let's do this."
The chamber shimmered.
Now it was a rooftop. Night. Wind whipping. Below, a government research facility lit up like a fortress. A red circle marked its core—target locked.
Elias crouched behind a vent, setting charges. His hands shook—not from fear, but from cold determination.
"You built the bomb," the voice said.
"Not to kill. To make a point."
"You made a crater."
---
The scene zoomed in.
Security footage: the explosion. Fire bursting outward, windows shattering, alarms blaring. But what caught Elias's breath was the unexpected detail:
A small janitorial vehicle.
Moving.
Too late.
Inside—one man. Maintenance staff. Crushed beneath falling steel and heat.
"He wasn't supposed to be there," Elias whispered.
"But he was."
"I did recon. I checked the logs. That wing was supposed to be empty."
"He swapped shifts last-minute. Covered for a sick friend."
The weight of that truth pressed harder than the building ever had.
---
The chamber changed again.
Now: a room full of protestors. Young faces. Bright eyes. Chanting. Hopeful.
Elias stood on a table, rallying them. Calling for action.
They cheered.
Some would later be arrested. Others blacklisted. One would vanish without record.
"You inspired them," the voice said.
"I showed them they weren't alone."
"You handed them matches and pointed at the fuel."
"I gave them a voice."
"You gave them consequences."
---
Now the chamber twisted.
Smoke everywhere.
A scene Elias couldn't stop reliving: a housing complex, burned from the inside. An act of revenge by a splinter group using his manifesto as justification. His words, his diagrams, twisted into chaos.
"I never told them to do that."
"You lit the fuse."
"I wasn't there!"
"But you were the spark."
The chamber played audio—his own speech, distorted and re-used by radicals.
He turned away, but the flames stayed. Crawling up the walls. Licking his arms again. Fire that remembered him.
"Say it," the chamber urged.
"I wanted to hurt the system," Elias said slowly. "And I told myself collateral damage was part of war. I wanted to believe I was different from the people in power—but I used the same logic. Just from the other side."
---
He knelt.
Smoke clung to him.
"Every time I close my eyes," he murmured, "I see his face. The janitor. I don't even know his name. I burned a hole in the map and pretended I hadn't erased a person."
A single file appeared before him.
The man's name: Luis Calderon.
Age: 46.
Three children.
Worked double shifts.
Elias whispered the name.
Again.
And again.
Until the flames dimmed.
---
Then, the chamber offered one final image.
A younger version of Elias, kneeling at his brother's grave. The catalyst. His brother had been killed during a police raid—wrong place, wrong time. A cover-up. No justice. No name on the news.
The voice was quiet now.
"You weren't born angry."
"No," Elias whispered. "I was made that way."
"But what you did after... that was yours."
He nodded.
"I thought fire would balance the scale. All it did was blind me."
---
The chamber dimmed.
Elias rose.
Face grim.
Posture battered—but clearer.
He exited without looking back.
Jonah Keshe stared at the door after him. "That one carried the weight before we asked him to."
Adrian Glass said nothing.
He just crossed Elias's name off the ledger.
And whispered, "Luis Calderon."
---
The ninth icon shattered—a flame inside a circle. Gone.
The voice returned.
"Participant Ten. Jonah Keshe. Confession initiated."
Jonah froze.
The pen slipped from his fingers.