The air crackled with an unseen energy, thick and oppressive like the humid New Orleans summer. Elias, no longer just the Reaper, no longer just Elias Thorne, stood on the precipice of a psychic storm. He could taste it, metallic and acrid, on the back of his tongue. For weeks, he had chipped away at Senator Dubois's empire, exposed his lies, and sown the seeds of doubt. Now, it had all come down to this: a direct confrontation, a battle fought not with fists or guns, but with the very fabric of memory and emotion.