[In the smoke, disturbed by the passing of her hand, dream Nemesis has finished her cake. She sets the plate on the counter and brushes crumbs from her hands. Then she pauses. She looks around, brow furrowed like she's misplaced something, or like there's something she's forgotten.]

[The viewer's focus is trained on her as though she's the only thing in the world. His hands are pressed against that invisible barrier, bloodied and shaking. "Nem," he says, barely a whisper. That word, at least, is clear.]

[Nemesis turns to leave.]

[It's like the action cuts the strings holding the viewer up. He collapses to his knees, just watching now - watching as her steps carry her toward the door. The only sound is the soft hitching of the viewer's breath.]

[She doesn't look back, not even once.]

[...at real Nemesis' feet, Hurricane has started to stir.]