Ethan's apartment was no longer a sanctuary of comfort.
It had morphed into a one-man war room.
The literature books he'd bought were gone, replaced by his ever-open laptop, its screen displaying a complex web of information he had begun to assemble.
The time for reacting was over.
It was time to attack.
His target was clear, yet impossibly distant: "Silas Investment Group."
He couldn't simply walk into the CEO's dreams.
The more important the person, the stronger their natural mental defenses, to say nothing of any technological safeguards an organization like Somnus might have.
He needed a starting point, a weak link in the chain.
He spent the next two days on what he called a "digital hunt."
This wasn't hacking; it was open-source intelligence gathering.
He dove deep into professional networks like LinkBoard, social media platforms, and financial forums.
He searched for any employee at Silas Group who showed signs of vulnerability.
He was looking for hints of burnout, veiled complaints about work pressure, or boasts that might reveal too much.
He was looking for a tired mind, a mind that was easy to breach.
After forty-eight hours of relentless searching, he found him.
"Julian Vance."
A financial analyst in his mid-thirties.
His professional profile was immaculate, but his personal social media accounts told a different story.
Sparse, infrequent posts about long nights at the office.
Cynical "jokes" about never seeing the sun.
A single photo where his eyes looked hollowed out with exhaustion.
This was the perfect man.
Someone on the inside, with access to information.
But not important enough to have special psychic protection.
Most importantly, his mind was already under siege.
Now came the hard part.
To enter Julian's dream, he needed a "key," a physical link.
It wasn't as simple as accepting a job from an anonymous client who left an object in a dead drop.
He had to get it himself.
He began the second phase of his plan: real-world surveillance.
He discovered from an old post that Julian was a coffee aficionado.
He frequented a specific café near his office, "The Daily Grind."
The next morning, Ethan was there.
Sitting in a corner.
Nursing a cup of tea.
Pretending to read a book.
He was dressed in plain, unmemorable clothes.
But his senses were on high alert.
At 8:15 AM sharp, Julian walked in.
He looked exactly like his pictures.
Wearing an expensive but slightly wrinkled suit.
His face etched with fatigue.
He ordered his usual black coffee and sat at a table near the window.
Ethan waited.
Every minute felt like an hour.
He watched Julian check his phone.
Sigh.
Rub his face with his hands.
Then, what Ethan had been hoping for happened.
Julian stood up.
He walked to the sugar and milk station to add something to his coffee.
He left his table for a few moments.
Ethan moved with a quiet, calculated speed.
He walked past Julian's table on his way to the restroom.
In a swift, fluid motion, he picked up the paper coffee cup Julian had sipped from.
He replaced it with an identical empty one he had prepared.
No one noticed.
He continued to the restroom.
He placed the cup—the "key"—into a small plastic bag inside his coat.
Then calmly walked out of the café.
He felt a pang of shame as he walked down the street.
He felt like a garbage thief.
But at the same time, he felt a rush of adrenaline.
He had done it.
He had the link.
This cheap paper cup, still warm and carrying the impression of a stranger's lips, was his next weapon.
That night, in his apartment, he performed his ritual.
But this time, it felt different.
There was no client paying him.
No soul waiting to be saved.
There was only a cold, dark motive.
A motive of vengeance and knowledge.
He placed the paper cup on his chest.
Closed his eyes.
And focused on the faint impression of the man who had held it.
Entering Julian's dream was chaotic.
It was no orderly observatory like Dr. Thorne's dream.
It was an endless office hell.
Ethan found himself standing in a long corridor.
Harshly lit by fluorescent lights.
The lights emitted an irritating buzz.
On either side, infinite rows of identical grey cubicles stretched out.
The air was stale with the smell of old paper, burnt coffee, and quiet desperation.
In the background, there was a constant drone.
Keyboard clicks.
Unanswered ringing phones.
The hum of printers.
He saw the dream-version of Julian.
Sitting in one of the cubicles.
Staring at a spreadsheet that seemed to stretch into infinity.
Every time he entered a number, other numbers would change randomly.
The task was impossible to complete.
Julian was frantically pounding on his keyboard.
Muttering, "I have to finish... The deadline is coming..."
This was his daily nightmare.
His professional anxiety made manifest.
There was no obvious monster here... yet.
This is where Ethan came in.
He wasn't here to clean this place up.
He was here to make it dirtier.
Focusing all his mental strength, he reached for that cold, dark knot in his consciousness.
His prisoner.
He felt a resistance.
The entity did not want to come out.
It took a tremendous effort from Ethan.
A sharp pain behind his eyes.
As if he were trying to vomit a piece of his own soul.
Then, he unleashed it.
The "Paranoia Entity" didn't appear as a hulking beast.
It crept into the dream like a virus.
The background hum began to change.
Instead of normal office sounds, it was now whispers of "Julian."
The ringing phones now repeated the voice of an angry manager.
"Vance! Where is that report?"
The dreaming Julian's eyes widened.
He looked around in confusion.
Then, the shadows appeared.
In the adjacent cubicles, he saw his coworkers.
But their faces were blurred.
They were whispering and laughing as they looked at him.
On his computer screen, a flashing red error message appeared.
"FATAL ERROR. FRAUD DETECTED."
"No... no, that's not right!" Julian cried out, trembling.
This was the art of the Paranoia Entity.
It doesn't create external horrors.
It amplifies the victim's own internal doubts and insecurities.
It twists them into the reality of the dream.
At the peak of Julian's panic, Ethan entered the scene.
He didn't appear as "Morpheus."
But as a man in a sharp black suit.
His face calm and confident.
He looked like someone from internal audit or security.
"Mr. Vance," Ethan said.
His voice calm and commanding.
"It appears you're in some trouble. Discrepancies have been discovered in your accounts. I'm here to help you understand what happened."
The terrified Julian clung to Ethan's presence like a life raft.
"I didn't do anything! I swear! The numbers... they're changing on their own!"
"I know," Ethan said.
"There's a third party involved. But for me to help you, I need to know everything. Tell me about the special projects you're working on. The ones that don't appear in the official records. Tell me about the client you call 'Hypnos'."
He had cast the bait.
The name "Hypnos" was just a guess.
Another god of sleep.
But it was a calculated one.
Julian's face tightened.
"Hypnos... how do you know? No one is supposed to know..."
"I know everything, Julian. Now tell me, what are the shipments you're handling for them? The ones going to that old medical facility on the outskirts of the city."
Ethan pressed on.
Using a mix of authority and feigned assistance.
Julian completely broke under the weight of the concentrated paranoia.
"They're... they're not normal shipments."
"They're devices... 'neuro-calming' technology, they call it."
"They send it to the abandoned St. Jude's Hospital."
"I don't know why! I just handle the financials! I swear!"
The abandoned St. Jude's Hospital.
Ethan had what he wanted.
He had a physical location.
A real thread he could follow.
Calmly, he reached out with his mind.
He pulled the Paranoia Entity back into its prison in his consciousness.
The process was easier this time.
The entity had "fed" on Julian's fear.
It was more compliant.
As the entity receded, the office nightmare began to subside.
"It's all right now, Julian," Ethan said to the broken dream-figure.
"It was just a bad dream."
And he pulled out.
He returned to his body in his apartment.
A wave of nausea and dizziness washed over him.
His head throbbed.
He could feel the residual echo of Julian's terror in his own mind.
A sticky feeling of persecution and doubt.
This was the price.
When you use a weapon like this, you never come away completely clean.
Some of the filth sticks to you.
But he ignored the feeling.
He had succeeded.
He stood up and walked to his window.
Looking not at the city, but at a digital map on his computer.
He found the location easily.
"St. Jude's Hospital for Neurological Diseases."
Closed for over a decade.
The perfect place for a secret operation.
His hunt was no longer digital.
Now, it was real.
He had to go there.