Doctor, I've brought myself here in the flesh. You may stop watching my videotapes.

Ever since doing away with the suppressor on my throat, Miss.Christine has deigned to lead my vocal training, teaching me how to sing unto people's minds without damaging their psyches. You'd like to hear the results? Hm. You did once request a lullaby, which... isn't my forte. I'll need practice still.

It never struck the Crimson Troupe just how their rejection of critique, their scorn of video, laid bare their cowardice and mediocrity. I used to avoid watching anything I performed in, such was my disgust... But perhaps it's time for a better seat. I see you holding those film tickets, Doctor; you needn't hide them. I accept your invitation.

There are people after me. They are disenchanted and voracious, screaming in chaos, dying to find the maker for their crazèd flock. For how could Tragodia truly die? He is but one of countless graven images to fall on the steps—He and all his kind are wholes made of shards, idols formed from syncretism. As it was with that mad and lonely stage director, snobbish soul, old friend of mine.

I've read that evaluation report; Dr. Folinic is suggesting I exit from the frontline for the time being. I can't maintain constant sobriety, that much is true; after years with these hallucinations for company, they are among the few friends I can count on my fingers. But I remain your assassin... Call me, and let me see to the work I know best.

Upon his followers, the troupe leader bestowed masks. Before long, I will set out in companionship to find those followers, one and all. Abandon reason and surrender to violence as they may, I will simply create, perform, and weave their dreams. Till they awaken from despair, till they can reexamine their souls in the mirror, wretched yet free, for better and for worse.

Some unfamiliar operators invited me to a 'movie night' after I reboarded, and the Vampire madame from Engineering seems somewhat soft on me too. So generous is the drama, it bathes its actors in halo even outside of the silver screen. Pardon? Rhodes Island's operators trust me on principle...? Mmm. They ought to be a little warier than that.

It is harder to resist destroying beauty than demonstrating it. It's a notion I try to stifle, but is it so simple to shake my bloodstained creative impulses? They were the one excuse in the troupe to touch on love and hate; they were a poison to tempt the audience; they are an inextricable yet unwordable part of me.

I must recall—the conspiracy, the slaughter, the false performances. Does creation break me free of the shadows about me, or does it bring me closer to them? Perhaps my thirst, reignited by death, will one day finally catch fire and rage. Doctor... Witness it. Grasp it. Endorse or reject it. Do not stop it.

Close your eyes. The dark of night now shrouds your consciousness; the sharp discomfort fades. So tell me, what is it you long to see... a ship, a sea of flowers, and us... That is all you want?

Permit me to shirk our operators' curious gazes for a spell. The curtain has finally fallen on the longest play, and I need some time to reorganize my thoughts. I'm sure you understand, Doctor... Pardon? I have to sign the returnee ledger with my Wrankwood autograph?

Would that they could break free of the slaver that is Hate, what then would they do...

I've woken from a nightmare, yet I still am in the night. Would you journey with me even then, dear Doctor?

The symbol of a troupe member's honor was a medal bearing Tragodia—a sentencing to days with thought and taste imprisoned, a painful past I tried again and again to cut away. But you give me a present to delight... and I will cherish it.

The stage is set.

To lead or to dominate—they are but a hair apart.

Alas, the scent of strife; I know it well.

Below the stage stirs not a soul.

Here I perform as me.

The apron and the wings are but the same.

I am everywhere.

The shadow beneath your feet is not your own.

The killing urge doth seize your flesh.

The burning hate doth speak your minds.

Resist me not; come to my song.

Shh... Listen.

Heeding your direction always leads so simply to ideal results. I ought to be on guard...

Stay the curtain call... the time is not yet come.

Flee... until your nightmares catch up to you again.

If this is not the ending in your heart, then rewrite it.

...Could you take some of those film posters off the walls?

Yes, this attire is too formal.

Once this one-act play is... roughly ready, would you like to be the first to watch?

Arknights.

On and on do new days come, yet shadows squat in the crevices of bygone days, so loath to leave. Doctor, be careful, please. Don't wallow too deeply in feelings of regret, in cursing fate. Accept failure, unease, fear... and then carry on walking.

History and murders aside, Wrankwood is a fine vacation spot.

Pierced by Originium crystal, this larynx of mine is a ruthless weapon, and proof of how the arts intoxicate me. Now that I've finally recovered my singing technique, I wonder, would you mind if... As you wish, then. Allow me to dedicate this long-overdue ballad to you. Happy birthday, Doctor.

Perhaps this sailing ship we stand on is a clear glass reflection, and Rhodes Island is but a fantasy woven by you... Yet oneiric emotions can move just as deeply as waking ones; if you believe this is all one beautiful dream, don't wake so soon.