Central was never still.
Not truly.
Even when the surface seemed quiet—when military parades passed through polished streets and the radio played upbeat orchestras—the ground below always hummed.
A kind of breathing.
A kind of waiting.
Edward Elric walked beside Hohenheim through the cold, narrow passages that stretched beneath the main archives. Their boots echoed off old stone.
"This is where you think the next piece is?" Ed asked, eyeing the corridor. "Doesn't look like much."
"It never does," Hohenheim murmured. "Truth hides itself best in silence."
They came to a sealed door. No guards. No sigils. Just a bare metal slab set into the foundation of Central's deepest level.
Ed pressed his hand to it, then paused.
"Something's written here. Old alchemical script. I can't read it all, but… it's a warning."
Hohenheim didn't answer.
He just placed his hand beside Ed's.
And the door opened.
Inside was a vault of stone and glass — ancient and untouched. The air was thick with stillness. Vats lined the walls, now dry and empty. Old alchemical diagrams circled the floor.
At the far end, a cracked mirror stood propped against the wall.
Ed stepped toward it—and saw nothing.
No reflection.
Just shadow.
Elsewhere, Alphonse sat alone, back against the outer courtyard wall of the barracks.
His breath came slowly. If he still had lungs, he knew they'd be shaking.
The dream had returned again.
The door had opened this time.
And he had walked through.
What he saw on the other side wasn't the Gate.
It was himself.
Whole.
Alive.
Human.
And happy.
But something had been wrong. Something in the eyes. Something just beneath the surface.
He hadn't smiled back.
The Shadow had begun to take shape within him — not in form, but in thought.
"You could have this," it whispered. "You deserve this. Why do you suffer for the sake of others?"
Alphonse gripped his knees, pressing against the pain of the thought.
"I'm not like you," he whispered aloud.
But the whisper returned, softer now.
"You were."
Aeon found him there.
Not by accident.
He sat beside him quietly, watching the horizon fade behind Central's towering walls.
"You've seen it, haven't you?" Aeon asked.
Alphonse nodded, not questioning how he knew.
"It's offering me things," he said. "Not threats. Comfort."
"That's how it works," Aeon said. "It doesn't twist you. It reflects you."
Alphonse's voice broke. "I don't want to want it. But part of me does."
Aeon didn't speak right away.
Then he said, "That's not weakness. That's proof you're still fighting."
Far below, Greed stepped into an unlit chamber, eyes narrowing as his foot hit something slick.
Blood.
Old, but not ancient.
He moved forward and found a cracked pedestal. At its center was a chunk of stone—not Philosopher's material, but something else. Familiar. Heavy.
One of the anchor shards.
The same kind Aeon had carried.
But this one pulsed darkly.
Like it had been fed.
Back in the mirror vault, Edward stared too long at the cracked glass.
He saw something now.
Not a reflection.
A version.
Of himself.
Eyes dark. Smile cold.
A man who had traded his brother's soul for his own peace.
And in that moment, all across Central, the alchemical lattice shivered.
Not from power.
From awakening.
From the stirring of something that had slept too long beneath the skin of the world.
Aeon felt it in his bones.
The time for observation was nearly over.