They say I'm a fool.
A fool without even a name.
He has no memories, or perhaps he doesn't. He can hardly be considered a real person, merely a persona, or perhaps just a part of a person's consciousness.
He doesn't truly exist.
When he opened his eyes, seeing the scrutinizing and calculating gazes around him, he faced human malice for the first time—so blunt, so glaring.
Everything was crystal clear.
Am I a fool?
Perhaps I am.
Those people deceived him as if he were a rat in a garbage heap, locking him in a dark room, pressing him into the clear stream, the sky very blue, filled with mocking laughter around him.
Feeling the air growing thinner and thinner, his heartbeat seemed to echo in his ears, beat after beat after beat.
A blank whiteness before his eyes, with nothing but a buzzing in his ears.
"Then call him Vincent."
He remembers her, always remembers, remembers Hannah, and remembers his own name, "Vincent."
He is not a fool, he has a name, he is Vincent.
