He turned up his collar and walked into the night, no longer just a finder of things, but a keeper of the secret. He walked with a stiff, deliberate gait, forever careful, forever watching, forever transfixed by the fragile reality of it all.
"Wake up."
Tommy stood up, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looked down at his hand. It was shaking. But as he watched, his skin flickered for a fraction of a second—flesh turning to wire, bone turning to light—before stabilizing.
This duality serves as the perfect metaphor for the series itself: a constant tug-of-war between reality and the supernatural, the observer and the observed.
She stopped five feet from him. She reached up and lowered her hood. Her eyes were entirely black—no whites, no irises. Just deep, infinite voids.