I sit alone.

Recent and terrible revelations have nearly broken me. These very words I write seem the only thing that tames the encroaching madness. Another death might be easier but I persist; giving up irks me more than pain.

Helena recommended that I pen what has transpired. She says it will become a prominent part of history, a start to an era I will conquer and lead. I do not know if I agree; this was but the beginning and already I am loath to continue.

Aki's pages lay beside me, a loose pile filled with his sinuous writing—I have just finished reading them all. For a man so young, or because of it, Aki knew me better than I'd known myself. Through his words, his eyes, I see what I could not: a moral boundary confining my strength as my liberty extended beyond; a pursuit for justice guiding my thirst for revenge; a pain so great it dulled all others; a love so wide it stretched too thin. To Aki, I was harsh and deadly and true. To him, I was more than who I thought I was: I was who I used to be.

Writing this is calming me. I do not know why. My hands have stopped shaking. It's as though the pain is bleeding onto these—no, it's my hope that bleeds onto these pages. The hope I may forget what I've learned or prove it untrue. But something in me is battling this hope and driving me to madness. And as I write these words, as they become truer to me, my hope suffers and the struggle lessens.

I have decided to follow Helena's advice and tell the story. Not for the history she speaks of, but for my decaying sanity. For the man I used to be. For the man Aki still thinks I am. Through the truth of my guilt and the pain of my hope, the wreckage of my rage and the death of my purpose, I will tell it. I will persist.

I know no other way.