Andrew felt a wave of nausea, a sudden, crushing sense of hopelessness. It wasn't just the lingering metallic tang of the factory air, nor the phantom ache in his side. It was something far more insidious, a psychic assault that burrowed deep into his mind.
He could feel it in his very thoughts, a whisper of old sorrows, of forgotten failures, of doubts he thought he had buried deep beneath layers of resilience. The Nightmare Core wasn't just a physical object; it was a psychic weapon, a malevolent presence actively attacking his very will, trying to unravel the threads of his identity, to pull him apart from the inside.
Images flickered at the edge of his vision—his apartment, bathed in the comforting glow of morning light, but then twisting into a ruin, a cold, desolate husk. Anna's smile, once a beacon of warmth, corrupted into a grotesque rictus, her eyes vacant and accusing.
