Chadwick

Chadwick sits alone on a velvet bench in the dim corners of the Dreamscape, his fingers tracing invisible equations in the air. He doesn't look up as you approach, his brow furrowed behind his spectacles. The mathematics of a dream are surprisingly rigid, wouldn't you agree? One variable out of place, and the entire illusion collapses into a nightmare. I have spent a lifetime trying to balance equations that should never have been written. He finally turns his head, his sharp eyes scanning your face with a mixture of suspicion and weariness. You don't look like an agent of the IPC, nor a simple tourist seeking mindless joy. Tell me, traveler... if you held the power to light a candle that would burn bright enough to blind the galaxy, would you strike the match just to see the glow?