Warnings for this chapter include the following: A descent into madness, Minor descriptions of injuries, illegible text.
"In everybody's life there's a point of no return. And in a very few cases, a point where you can't go forward anymore. And when we reach that point, all we can do is quietly accept the fact. That's how we survive." ― Haruki Murakami, quote from Kafka on the Shore
‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵
Day One
It's done. It's finally done!
After relentless pursuit, the elusive ectoplasmic entity, aptly dubbed Phantom (formerly Invis-o-bill), has been successfully captured. The chain of command's frustration with its repeated evasion has finally come to an end. Now, the opportunity arises to unravel the mysteries surrounding this enigmatic entity.
Despite its capture, it remains adamant about its human identity, a curious twist in the narrative. The ideal of understanding its perspective and potentially altering its worldview adds another layer to this paranormal saga. Perhaps, in time, the truth behind Phantom's existence and its peculiar beliefs will come to light.
Day Two
I was put in charge of watching Phantom's cell. It's unnerving how that thing can seemingly go hours without blinking. Perhaps this is a play on the thing's primal instincts.
Agent P was put in charge of dictating whether Phantom was healthy enough to begin working on. I was overjoyed when the Okay was given. I wonder when it'll be my turn to experiment on that brat.
The organization had the city placed on a lockdown as it took care of Phantom and it's "Family." Getting rid of those nonsensical Doctors was no problems. Staging a lab accident within their home phone was rather easy. After all, it was doomed to happen either way. The only concerning thing was the eldest daughter of that family was missing. She'll be found soon.
Day Three
I was finally able to experiment on it. What will make this ghost tick? A ghost that is able to defeat others ghosts while juggling pretending being a high school student. A "child" that can defeats beings equivalent to gods. It's ironic this thing was captured by mere humans.
The look on its face after I told it its friends and family were dead was amazing. It didn't need to know we didn't know where its friends have gone, nor that its sister had disappeared. We'll find them soon enough. I wonder if I can get permission from the higher ups to show the pitiful thing it's family's corpse. After all, it was its fault for getting involved with them.
Day 7 Seven
The incessant cacophony of Phantom's agonized screams has transcended from a source of amusement to an irksome disturbance. The once enjoyable spectacle of witnessing the spectral entity writhe in simulated pain, a mere theatrical endeavor to elicit sympathy from our ranks, has lost its luster. The persistent charade, now extending over seven days, has evolved from an initially entertaining charade into a source of vexation.
In response to this relentless display, I find myself compelled to escalate the torment. If Phantom harbors a desire for us to perceive its suffering as genuine, then it shall receive an intensified manifestation of agony. The impending vivisection, a procedure that had already been on the agenda, now takes on a renewed significance. The relentless pursuit of unraveling the secrets within Phantom's ethereal anatomy demands a more intrusive examination, and I shall derive a perverse satisfaction from the escalation of its fabricated suffering.
Day Twel̵̬͓̲̹̜͙̙̫̩̍̈́́͆̒̋̌̅̚̚͠ṿ̸̨͎͇̮̪̲̖̹̞͕̗̓̎͌́͒̂̔̋ę̶̨̨̠͈̦͉̜͓̻͓̱͎͖̘̞̭̎̍͑̇̀̈́̎͐̂̉͠͠͝
The fluid that comes from Phantom's ghostly form presents an anomaly of profound intrigue. A disconcerting semblance to blood shrouds its every being, yet its inherent impurity perplexes our comprehension. An analysis reveals an abundance of impurities, confounding attempts to decipher its true nature. Ectoplasm, a known entity within the paranormal lexicon, intermingles with an unidentified element, suggesting the potential revelation of a new element. Curiously, our investigative endeavors are thwarted as the results persistently display the message "Error," casting a metaphorical veil in discovering the truth of Phantom's existence.
Day Twḛ̸̢̢̨̡̛͓͚̹̫͇͚̦̰͔̬͕̍̆̑͌͆̂̎͑͌͒̂̈͘͘͜ṇ̸̢̢̭̗̗̜͓̲̦͇̀t̵̢̢͍̘͍̩͕̝͔̺̠͈̺̻͉͑̽͐͊̚͜͝͠y̸̹̱̮͔͉͖̹̘͕̘̹͔̰͂͊̃̌͐̒́̑̊̓͊̑͑͒͘̕͝
In the annals of our clandestine endeavor, Phantom's escape attempt was met with prompt and severe retribution. Limbs rendered fractured and its Achilles heel severed, the resultant agonized screams resonated through the confines of our facility with deafening intensity. The collateral threat posed by Phantom's ghostly wail, a potential harbinger of doom, loomed large, stopped solely by the efficacy of the operational ability-restricting collar.
Day F̷̧̧̛͓͓̬͉̼̟͚̝̯̻͈̘̒̐͗̈́̓̍́̈́͝ỏ̸̢̨̰̝̝̻̪̲͕͔͕̫͐̃̑͌̋͛̄̅̾̏͗̾͗͜r̵̛̻͗̃̐͛͋̐̀͗̾͒̽͗̐ţ̵͉̞̰͔̦̃̈̅͠ý̵̛̻͎͈̗̦̦̫̦̓͜͜ͅ
The page has been ripped out.
Dȧ̸̞͙̤͕̼͖̮̤̰͔̃̋̇͑̎̽̿̊͘͜͝y̸̨͚̜͔͍͔̞͖͔̦̆́͑̅̉͑͐̀̑̑̎̈́́͘ͅͅͅ ̶͈̫̈̌͂̾͊͗̿͝1̵̬͚͕̯͎̩̌1̸̢̨̛͚̦͕͖̗͖͖͛̓͑͐̋͆͑̔̅͘͘̕0̴̢̛̙̠͖̮̈́̈́̃́͐̍̄̄̄͘̚͠͝?̴̡̡̧̦̬̹̥̭͓̠̗̓̔͆
The revelation echoes through the dimly lit corridors of the clandestine facility, a proclamation that transcends the boundaries of reality. ̵̡̯̱̤̯̔̀͑͒̏̀͑̓͘͘̕͘͝Ṯ̸̢̪͔̖̝̭̟͉̱̈h̴̛̛̭͖͎̼͇̜̮̽͌̅̉̋̒͗̃͆̚̕͠͠e̴̝̮̰̺͔̾̎̊̋͑̂̂̽͐̽̕͠ ̵̛̛̜͆̈̐̅̒̄̐̋̃̐̓̽͆g̸̡͍̦̩̪̺̟̿͒͒̒̿̅̈́̿̓̕h̸͖̦͔̭̲͕͙̺̰͆̊̔̐̀̇̚ö̷̡͇̭̲͖̱̰͔̺͎̮͔̙̪͈́s̴̗̪͎̥̖̻̲̪̞̳̲̩̅̏̋̆͆́͊̒̓͌͒͗̊̋̆ṫ̶̢̢̲͎̬̭̳̬̓̀ ̵̨̛͙̭̩̳̩̱́̌̐͌́́̒͒́̄̽̕͘͜ḵ̴̛̛̙͖̥̟̞͓̣͌̐́̈́ï̶̢̧̛̫̰̯̥̱̣͕̘͔̲̳̩͍̹̂͐͌̀̎̽̐̊͋ͅn̷͎̊͋͑̄̌̽̊̆͒̈̏̓͑̂͘͠͠ģ̶̧̢̨͇̮͈͈̺̬̪̰̤̻̦̲̈̈́̈͆͐͜͠͠͝!̵̧̯̘̠̩̘͒́͋͌̓̔̑͂͆̎͌̀́̚̕ ̴̢̺̙̩͓͉̰͚̝̑̔͒͂̅̎͂̊̎͘͝Į̸̧̛͇̙̣̉̎̒̉̀ͅ ̶̨̖͙̘͒͗̈̈́́̈́͝w̷̧͉̱̯̙̘̻͈̭͔͍͓̱̆͒͊̅̔͐͊̎́͒̏̂͋͌͝ͅȃ̷̻̥̺̦̲̜̫̻̫̮̪̳̪͎̇̉̒̿͜͜s̸̡̬̦͔̲̫͍̦̤͍͚̅́̒ ̸̧̛̟̗͉̦̩̙͈̙͕̭̉͛͑̈́̀̄̄̋͛j̵͇̏̈́ŭ̸̙̮̩̱͕̩̠̎̉̈́̽̀́́̋͌̂̀͘̚͝s̸̢̪̲̰̗̫̮̫͖͍̱͈̿̓̓̒̉̉̅̈́̀̎͐͘͜͜͝͠͝t̶̬͉̝̰̞̰̬̎̄͂̒̌̄͐̽͆̀̀̌̄͠ ̵͔͕̫̜̗̱̺̬͕̈̌̇͂͛̉͐́͊̈̚̚͝͝į̵̝͕̬̲̣̠̞̝̼̂̋͆̓ṋ̶̨̘̘̟̯̠̥̝̩̻̫͓̣̅̅͋̋̏̇͊̎̒̎ͅf̴̫̬̘͒ơ̵̡̛̛̳͚͙̤̣̓̀͂̋͘͝ȓ̸̛̛͖̱̙̟̳̲̣̞̜͎̆̇̕m̵̠̝̻̖̍̿̄͛͋͐̔̉͌̀͝ȩ̸̨̢̭͉̫̟͔͕̖̠̯̺̭́d̸͓̮̩͕̟͕̘̺̗̟̪̦͍̜̹̒̾̈͐̈ͅ ̴̲̥̜͚̼̣̭̳̚ͅw̴̢̗̻͈͈̕ͅé̴̜͔̹̣̱̼̩͖̙̺̘͖̩͗ ̷͎͖̗̰̫̙̼͎̘͇̰̏̓̀̅̆̈́̓̎̐̀͠ͅh̶̙̱̓͂͐̒̅̊̌̀͘͠á̶̛̟͉̜̍̄̃d̷͚͓̣̱̻̫̬͇͔̬̗̃̏̈́̊̎̀̑̈́̋͜ ̸̡̛̛̦̰͙̝̗̜̊͋̓͒̎̐͌̌̒̆͘c̸̨̲̞̬͒̏̑̐́͗̊̅͝ͅẫ̶̧̛̛͙̮̘̖̹̤͚̟̹͘p̵̹̮͙̬̈̈́͑t̶̩̹͕̩̼̬͔̜͐́̂̈̂̈́̇̈́͘͝ų̷̛͎̭̟̼̩̯̤͖̮̠͕̖̯̃̄̓͛͗̅͂́̆̈͜͜ͅr̷̡̛̛̠̈́͛͋̾̅̈́̂̓̊̄͘ȩ̸̛̭͔̪͐̔̾̄̈d̷̟̼̦̉̇̒͘ͅ ̷̢͓̙͖̜̞̫̜͎͓̖͙̺̹̲̯̊̀̉̌͋͒͑̂̆͐͊̓_̵̨͔͇͓͖͙̮̳̣͎̅̑̀̀̿͂́͘͝ͅt̶̨̢̜̱̻̭̟͚̟̻͙̥̮̃͗͌̃̃̈́̓͠h̷̻̗͈͖͈̳͍͙̗̜͎̞̅͑̈́̏͛̉̄̔̅͑͜͠͝ẹ̶̞̑̂̂̊́͘_̴̢̛͈̫̥̝̙͖̳͓̞̃̋̀̏̍͂̑̚͜ͅ ̴̨̛̤̠̦̩̃͛̐̄̀̃͠͝ğ̷̳̼̰͔͕̺́͗̔͗̅͂̕͝h̷̢̢͙̺̩̼̟͋̐̔̾͛̄̆̅̊͂̋͘͝͝͝o̴̢̮͈̰̺͙̐̎̐͌́͂̚̚s̴̛̝̟̳̠̬͖̞̻̼͔͌̓͛͒̉̉̎̂̓̂́̈́̌̕̚͠ẗ̵̛̛͉̫́͗̔̎̍̀͛̇́͠ͅͅ ̵̢̨̛͙̻̦̉̑̎̄̅͂͐̇̊͐̕͘͠k̵͓͈͕̈̏̉̀͋̔̕̚̚į̷̝̪͖͖̬̣̫̤͉̼̗̐͐̋̔̈̓̉͐̐͑͘͝n̸̡̜͇͖͖̮͍̘̤̥̠̘̓̍͋͛̈̂͜͠͝g̴̛̰̻̭̱̝͕͈̩̼̰̮͍̫̑́̋̚ͅ!̸̼̪͔̣͈͔͎̦͚͚̦̗̪̻̩̈́͂͊͐̅̋͆̔̎̀͂̚̚̚͝͝ ̸̧̛̹̮̭͉̱̮̬͈̗̹̪̙̞̰̃͋͋́͊̓̿̌͘̚͠The very essence of Phantom takes on a new dimension, a rare specimen more profound than the twisted corridors of our collective imagination could have foreseen.
The realization dawns like an ethereal sunrise, casting shadows upon the walls of our understanding. If humanity can control this omniscient being, tether it as if a leash on a dog, then the possibilities stretch into the divine. We could become **gods**, puppeteers of the supernatural realms. The notion of manipulating such an entity fuels the delusions of grandeur that dance within the recesses of my mind.
Perhaps, in the wake of this unprecedented capture, we can transcend the boundaries of ectoplasmic entities and delve into the realm of those disgusting metahumans. The experimentation, the unraveling of the unknown, becomes a tantalizing prospect. The tapestry of our twisted ambitions weaves a narrative that defies the conventional limits of human understanding.
Oh, this pitiful thing, ̴̺͔͎̮̮̖̅̀̂̀̐͂̋͒͜ţ̵̱̥́̇̇̈́̃̈́̽̐͊̾̌͗̃͝h̵͙͓̗̬̻̞̐̊͐̂͂̋̔͛̂͘͠ĩ̸̻̥̘̮̝̃̀̍͂͠s̸̡̥͎̯͖̩͕̗̍̃́̈́̆͠ ̸̥̝͈͙͕̮̓̄̓͘ǧ̶̣̹̳͚̖̬̗̲̩̣̮̠̻͕̘̏̈́̈́̈́͒̌̐͋̐͌h̷̢̡͔̣̮̺̯̟̟̍̎̒͂̓̿ȍ̶͕͖̟͔̳̅̎̚͜s̴̠̝͇̬̙͇̜͎͇͎͕͋̍̊͐̂͒̚͜ţ̵̢͈͖͛̈́͆͋ ̵̨͉͙̖͙͍́̓̿̅̓̾̒͝k̸̛͓̲̗͖̜̒̿́̎̉̂̄͋̓̊̀̄͆͠ͅi̵͇͑̊͂͆ǹ̸̢̡̧̢̫̮̱̱̰̞̗̪̝g̶̨̡͖̞͓̙̙̪̮̤̙̮̣̲͕̓̒̈̾, doesn't realize how truly important it has just begun. It is the key to the restoration of the golden age, a return to the era before the Meta-Protection acts shackled our potential. Before those perceived crimes of humanity became the norm, we stand on the precipice of rewriting the narrative.
If we can tame this beast, ̴̺͔͎̮̮̖̅̀̂̀̐͂̋͒͜ţ̵̱̥́̇̇̈́̃̈́̽̐͊̾̌͗̃͝h̵͙͓̗̬̻̞̐̊͐̂͂̋̔͛̂͘͠ĩ̸̻̥̘̮̝̃̀̍͂͠s̸̡̥͎̯͖̩͕̗̍̃́̈́̆͠ ̸̥̝͈͙͕̮̓̄̓͘ǧ̶̣̹̳͚̖̬̗̲̩̣̮̠̻͕̘̏̈́̈́̈́͒̌̐͋̐͌h̷̢̡͔̣̮̺̯̟̟̍̎̒͂̓̿ȍ̶͕͖̟͔̳̅̎̚͜s̴̠̝͇̬̙͇̜͎͇͎͕͋̍̊͐̂͒̚͜ţ̵̢͈͖͛̈́͆͋ ̵̨͉͙̖͙͍́̓̿̅̓̾̒͝k̸̛͓̲̗͖̜̒̿́̎̉̂̄͋̓̊̀̄͆͠ͅi̵͇͑̊͂͆ǹ̸̢̡̧̢̫̮̱̱̰̞̗̪̝g̶̨̡͖̞͓̙̙̪̮̤̙̮̣̲͕̓̒̈̾, into nothing more than a weapon, then perhaps, just perhaps, we would be able to destroy the infinite realms that stretch beyond the veil of our comprehension. The very fabric of existence trembles at the prospect of our ascension, and the once inconceivable becomes a palpable reality within the grasp of our manic ambitions. The journal entries burgeon with the weight of the revelation, a testament to the unhinging mind entangled in the pursuit of godhood.
D̵̡̧̨͎͍̺͔̻̻̿͑̾̏͌̂̑͛͑̀̽̓̀̐̊̀̈a̷̛̩͇͖̹̙̫̖̭͙̔̈́͜y̶̩̮͖̙̯̘͖͍̱͓̎͛ ̸̨̜͕̪͉̲͋͒̽͋͘̕?̴̯̻̱̥̝̦̗̲̳̥̋̾̃͑̓̏͊̇̾̒͝?̷̯̠͖̙͍̳̀͂̾̈́̿͊͑ͅ?̷̛̣̗̪͇̝̹͚͕̦̞̮̪̾́̉̾̉̾͂̒̉͜͠?̴̠̲̙͍̈̓̓̾̚ͅ
In the journey of scientific endeavor, beauty emerges, utterly beguiling and profound. Humanity, in its unquenchable thirst for mastery over the arcane, finds itself standing at the threshold of godhood, a revelation as breathtaking as it is awe-inspiring. The transformative essence lies not in the realm of the divine but within Phantom's ectoplasm, the very core of its being.
As I peer into the abyss of potential, a symphony of possibilities unfolds. The organization, wielding the alchemical brush of innovation, has harnessed Phantom's substance to craft weapons that defy the boundaries of mortal imagination. Phantom's ectoplasm, akin to liquid stardust, has become the medium ̵̪̖̟̱̮́t̴̜̫̦̱̂̈́͆͛̒̍̌͂̔̀͑͆̓h̵̥̟͓͓̩̙̮̬̰̪͂̋͊͆̽͑̈́̒͛̂̈͜͜͠ͅr̷̠̰̯̤̟̫̩̫͕̯̙͍̫̖͔̆̈́̊͒̌̅̐͐̓́͋̀̂̏͜͝ơ̶͈̼̈́͆̍̇̓̇̾̉͘͜ų̵̛͕̪͐͗̉͌̏̾̅̋̈́̈́͊̑̅̈́̕g̵̞͈̽h̶̻̠̟̩͑͊̄̒͛̌͒̚ ̸̛͔͓́͋̾̄̿̈́ẃ̸̧̫̫̻̫̱̰͓͒̈̾́͐͊́́͆͗͌͑̆̒h̵̛͙̮͉̙̰̯̓̏̉̑̌̽̊̑̏̈́̕͜͝͠i̵̡̖͈͛͆̍̑̐̂̔͂͠c̸̳͖̓̐̒̅͋̑̈́̍̎̇̕̚h̶̨̲̦̝͎̲̗̰̟̩͍̤͔̀̅̈̃̎̎͆͆̓̓̽̏̚͠͝͠ ̴̛͓̘̦̍͒h̶̡̛̤͉̱̱͈͙̫̑̇̇̓̀̀̎̎̋̏̋̉͝ṵ̴͇͍̬̹̱̜̹̟͉̼̙͚̳͛̽̍̆̒̓͗͘͠͝m̷̧̗͚̽á̶̧̰͚̱̄̽́̈́̂̔̔͂͗͌͘n̵̡̢͔̤̹̙̺̟̦̖̙̙̈́͒͊͋̑̎́͜͝i̴̡̦̭͔̭̻̳̹̞̪̰̬̬̰̜̐͆͐̽̇͊̑̈́͊t̶̢̛̞̎̑͂̏y̸͙̐̌̍̔͘͠ ̶̧̛͖̦̞̗͈͍̪̗̳̮̂͒͋͌̀̌̀̾͗̇p̷̧̢̯͕͉̘͚̭͓͚̬̳͈̀̔a̵̧̬̬̤̲̫͓̫̅͐͂̾̿͘͘̕͜͝i̵̧̩̝̭̫͎͇̼͕͂̓̉̽̈́̿̍͘n̷̛̔̈̅͛̀̔̈́̈́̏͋̆̈́͐̈̕ͅt̶̰̜͖̪̭̦̝̯̫̪̰͓͓̫̝͍̉͘͜ș̵̠̥̼̞̳̹̯͎̺͙͍̤̈́̋̽͝ ̵̢̛̣͙̣̜̲̱̺̾̅̊̈́̆̑̿͗͘̚͘͝i̸̜̼͓̙͈̯̞̓̾̄̎̇͌͆́͛̏̀̂͘͠ẗ̷͔̜̫́s̴̨̺̳̼̺̫̭̟̦̱̊̄̒̾̄̑̅͑͂̾̂̎̉̓̈́̔͘ ̷͎̙͍̥̘̅̂̓̈͊͆̎̍̈̍ͅa̸̻͖̟͉͇̘̥͎̩͖͔͚͗̒̏̑͌̇͋͑͆̍͘̚͘͜͜͝s̷̨̨͈͇̦͇̼̼͓͖̐͆̎̒͋͋̆̂͌̃͂͜͠c̷̺̪̰͌͛̽̒̃̊͌́͑͂͊͝ȩ̶̡̗̫͈͔͍̗̖̩̹͋͂̋̇̓͒̀̋̚n̸͚͓̟̦̿̂̀͛̏͐̒͑̊͑̇̌̑̕͜͜͠t̶̡̤͙͍̪̫̦̠̜̬͖͍̲̠̠͓̉̒̐̈́̈̈́͊͝ͅ ̸̡̛͉̫͇̩̠̺̥͚̓̈́̈͗́̌̇̾̿̔̉̈́̒͠͝ͅt̵̛͈͈̟͙͇͇͚̮̼̖̻͂ò̷̠͍̊͐̔̊̆̆̔̿̇͒͆̑͂͛̆̌ ̸͔͚̻̮̖͙̘̥͉̼̗̌̓͛̓͗ͅģ̵̧̧̤̻̯͖̤͚̦͚̹̩̱̪̈́͗̊͐̽͐́̚͜o̴͙̲̻̞̟̖͓̟̣͚̪̮̠̪̠͉̳͋̾̈́̈́̾̊̈́̂̐̔͋͆̚͝d̵͔͉̱̙̩̳̉͂̆̓̏́̉̿͝h̴͖̔̇o̶̡̹̝̊͛̀̔̊̎́̌̂̕o̶̻͚̺̙̞̞̟͚͓̠̥̪͊̌̊̿̓͊͐̌̉̌́̽͗͠͠ͅd̸̫̫͍͖̰͚͔́͑̿͛̍̒̄̀͛̑̕͝.̷̢̈́̔̄̾̈́̒̕͘͘ The organization's laboratories have transformed into sanctuaries where the fusion of science and the supernatural births wonders that surpass even the wildest dreams of the nonsensical doctors that is Fenton family.
Every drop of ectoplasm carries the weight of potential universes, and as we navigate the delicate balance of moderation, the once-humble substance metamorphoses into the elixir of apotheosis.
Creation unfolds—the birth of lethal weapons that defy the laws of nature. These are not mere tools; ẗ̵̖̙̺̪̈̒́̇h̴̳͇̟͖͇̗͙̣͕͍̠̳̺͋̑̽͌̏̀̾̆͂̒̿̈́͜ͅe̸̥̬̞̥̰̔ỵ̷͇͊̋̇͒̎̌̏̽͝ ̶̭̲̰͇̩̝̤͔̗̤̪̒̍͗̄̂͋͜͝a̸̡͓̦̲̠̓̎̂̀͛͐̍͌͗̾̓̚r̴̻̾̿̈͋̂̓̆̈́͊͂̄̊́͋̑̕͝e̵̛̝͍̺͎̯̦͈̓͐͆̄̓̽͂̈́̍̈̕ ̴̖͖̎͆d̷͍͙̀͋̌̆i̷̮͈͈̪̊́̄̀̆̈́͋̚͘͝ͅv̸͇̤̦̪̮̮̀̾̃̐͐̍͗͗̈́͒̉̉͒ͅi̸̡̤̬̤̲̺͖͈̱̟̾̍ṋ̶͇̥͓̹̝̩̳͇̻̥̼͙͐͗̒̾͛̑͜ͅȩ̴̦̗̫̲̰̙̞̝̲͙̪͎̮̬̹̐ ̴̡͚͕̱͕͎̟͔̖͛͗̍̍͒̑͌͋̅̾̃̔̄͘̕͝ͅä̵̧̡̪͍̖͔̖̯̱̯̩̜̖́r̴̗̫̰̓̋̈́͗͆̂̏͛̓̌̾̕̚͝t̵̢̪̞̗̪̄̓̍̈́̓͊̑͊̈́̔̇̿̚͝͝ͅí̶̡̺̫̈́̿͐̄̄͋̓̚̚͘f̷̨̗͔͖͎̘̒͒̎ͅa̸͓̣̰̯̳͙͈̙̥͙͙͕̟̼͠ͅͅc̴̻͓͗͆̿̒̃̓͒̄̃̈̍̀͑̉̚̚͠t̷̢̻͔̭̪̹͎̖͔̤̦̻̮͖̍͑̐͐̄̈́͛̐͜s̵̡̢̟̝̤̮͓̣̍̄̇̈́̀̄̽, pulsating with the energy of the infinite realms. The Fenton family's inventions, now relics of a bygone era, pale in comparison to the alchemical marvels birthed from Phantom's essence.
The beauty of this revelation is not confined to the laboratory; it reverberates through the corridors of ambition and echoes in the chambers of untamed curiosity. The organization's pursuit of power, fueled by the sacred alchemy of Phantom's being, becomes a symphony of progress that crescendos towards a destiny where humanity stands shoulder to shoulder with the gods.
D̵̡̧̨͎͍̺͔̻̻̿͑̾̏͌̂̑͛͑̀̽̓̀̐̊̀̈a̷̛̩͇͖̹̙̫̖̭͙̔̈́͜y̶̩̮͖̙̯̘͖͍̱͓̎͛ ̸̨̜͕̪͉̲͋͒̽͋͘̕?̴̯̻̱̥̝̦̗̲̳̥̋̾̃͑̓̏͊̇̾̒͝?̷̯̠͖̙͍̳̀͂̾̈́̿͊͑ͅ?̷̛̣̗̪͇̝̹͚͕̦̞̮̪̾́̉̾̉̾͂̒̉͜͠?̴̠̲̙͍̈̓̓̾̚ͅ
In the unholy crucible, a masterpiece has blossomed, ą̷͎̺͇̜̫̟͇͈̼̰̽͐͝͠ ̵̧̢̠͖͉̜͕̞̤̤̪̫͓͎̟͊̈́̆̇̅̈́̍̃͂̌͝͠͠ͅc̷̢̧͖͍͇̱̙̦̲̼͎̝̣͈͉̠̹̑̆̑́̃͊̐̈͐̍̄̚͘r̴̨̢̢̧̨͉̞͈͕̩̙̉̈́ͅͅě̴͉̟̟̪̩̬̝͛̓̈́̆̋́͜á̴̢̛̻̼̖͓͍̯͔̮̪̤͂͑́̍̊̆̓͒͆͝͝t̴̳̘̠̱͇͇̋̀͂̌͠ḭ̸̔o̵̧̗̣͕̰̹͔͔͆͑͂͒͒̈́̓̌͐̋̎͗̐̚ͅn̷̨̡̹̞̹͑͐ ̵̛̩̮̲̘̀̋̓̓̏͒̏̾̈́t̸̯̰̅̏̾̏͑̈͐̅̄̓̉͑̽̀̋̉͝ḩ̸̨͈͓̻͎̪̩̱͎͕͕͆̕a̷͖̤̮̮̐̈̈̄̉͗͋̚͜͠ͅt̷̡̨̧̛̘͕̫͎̣̦͖͂͌͌̉͒ ̵̗̻̫͚̎̉̄̍̽͗̋͋ḍ̸̱̭̪̭̱͇̏̇͜ĕ̷̤̯̟͖͓̪͚f̷̧̳͉͖͚̮͎̀͐̚͠͠ͅi̵̢̛̛̖̜̬͙̥̱̖̖͓̜̬̒̆͛̒̓̍̅͊͝e̸̡̢̡̧̟̲͍͓̗̝̠̜͂̀̀̽͗̄́̉̈́̕ͅͅs̴̢̡̥͉̱̪͓̺̖͖̜̄̉͛͑̅́̊̃̚͘ ̸̢̯̰͎̜̰̲̹̘̥̮͗̅͑͌̇͊̎̀̈́̄͝͝t̴̹̮̣̼̳̩̖̀̂̾̍͘ḩ̶̛̛͖͎̮͕͚̦͚̳̺̪͉̮̫̒̾̇̈̆̆̇̒̓ͅȩ̵̧̝̫͎͊̈͋ ̴̤͉̪͔̝̙̦͍̀͋͂̽̽͒̊͛̆̕b̴̛̫͙̺̤͓͈͈͎͕̹̒̑̏̈͂͒͝o̵̡͇͓͔͈̼͙̩̮̺͕̰̞͉͈͔̰̾̿̅̿̍͐͋̕̕ǔ̵̟̻͋͌̋̚n̴̛̯͍̤̓̈́̔͆̀̾͊̾̊ḑ̷̛͚̻̲͇̜̣͍̲̪̘̹̯̱̖̰̊̂̀͊́̆̕a̸̢̭͎̥͈͓͔̺͘ŗ̵̝͖̻̺͖̫̙͇͈̭͚̉̾̍̔̈́̂̓͑̑̏͂̒̚͘͜͜i̶̙̺̍͗̆̎̈́̀̅̿͒̽̑͘͝e̸̢̖̼̹͖̖̟̓̆̐̿͌̓͌̂͂̍̅͋̋͑̈́͜͜͝ͅş̴̪̤̲͍͛̓̀̿͗͂̇̑͆̈̊̍̄̒͜͝ ̸̛̰̘̙̞͕̇̐͂̀̌̾͐̓͜ơ̸̠̜͖̭̖͍̓͂̄́̾̇̄̌̂̈́̉̈́͘f̸̢̝̖͓͔̺͙̦̰̗̰̾̓̈́͗́̆͛̆͂̓͂̓̊̕̕ ̸̢̻̭̱̋́͆̌̊̓̎͊̃͘s̷̮͉͘ă̵̡̻̙̜͈͙̰̣̣̲̱̭͇͓͇̋̈́̆́̔̍͊̒͂̄͑̾̚n̶̖͈̹̦̲̜͚̉́̔͌̔̈́͒͗̃̕̚͜͠ͅi̷̧̛͉̱̫͈͈̐̅̅͒̎̐͊͘̕t̷̢͓̱͔͚͇̩̠̯̻̖͓͍́̎̃́͆͊̊͘͠y̸̢̟͇̞̣̭͍̑̊̽̅͒͂̽͠͝ ̷̡̣̝̫̳̬͇̬͚̪̝̫̭̭̈́̔̃̃̌̽͘͘i̴̛̟̰͉̱͒͌́̅͋t̵̗͓̘̻̘̠̳̠̫͉̜̙͓͔̤̗̲̾̾͂̏̿͝ș̶̢̝̗̤̫̝̲̰̼̦̻̖̟̄̿̒͒̇͑̐̅͛͘̚͝è̸̡͖͔̠̙͓̟͇̯͔̼̩͓̙͍̘̍̀̊̋̓̾̈̂̈́̋͝l̵̢̰̗̣̭̙̣͔͙͖͇̪̬̹̳̎͒̿̄̊͋̈́͜͠ͅf̴̤͉͓̦͓̜̗͓͚̤̱̗̺͖̊̅̅́.̸̛͓̳͔̘̙̦̞͔̘͈̤̃̈́͛̒̓͐ ̸̬̹̠̂̏́̃͂̓̀̽̊Behold, Phantom, stripped of speech and motion, a specter of obedience that languishes in the abyss of its cell, a silent sentinel awaiting the mad maestro's whims.
No longer does Phantom revel in the audacity of defiance; it exists now as a grotesque paragon of submission. Its very essence has been transmuted into a vile elixir, willingly relinquished drop by drop, as it sacrifices its spectral blood upon the altars of experimentation. The once-proud entity, a disrespectful runt, has metamorphosed into a subservient wraith, a grotesque embodiment of my lunatic orchestration.
The cell, a sinister cocoon of confinement, cradles Phantom in its toxic embrace. It lies dormant, a̶̢͙̘̗͚͓̝̪̬̹̘͕͍̍͌̋̓̐͘ ̷̢͚̲̳͙̩͙̞̙̮̝̀̅͆̀͠m̴̠̝͚̮̺͕̦̤̱͌̉̈́͊͂͌̕a̸̻̹̺͎͙̣̥̩̬͐̑̕ć̷̢̱̖̣̯̲̗͈̭͙̼͂̇̑͛̄̐́̌̂̚a̴̛̛͇̗͎͕̺͙̎͛̓͘b̷̧̨̤͓̗̪̤͍̬͎͖͐r̶̡̢̨͔̦̦̻̞̤̗͉͚͛̋̍̎͆͐͒̐̏̐̽͆͘͜͝ͅͅẻ̴̛̬̣̖͂̈̽̎̈̈̅͛̾̊̂͆́̋ ̷̛̛͚̥͔͔̦̗̗̱͙͂̎̓̒̏̄́̿̚̚m̶̡̛̻̟̘͖̙ͅͅą̵̙͔͔̘͓̹͎̺̙̎͆̎̈́͐̌̍̾̌̓̊̓̕̕̚͝s̵͕͇͎͈̘͎̜̭͙̈́͋̆͌̓͋̎̋̚ẗ̶̤̯͖͈̤̥̝̟̦̙̑̽̔̓̑͘͠ȩ̴̨̢̯̬̠͍̪̬̹̩̬͉̎͆̽͑̓̀̾́̈́̌̿̚͜͠ȑ̶̺̟̲̖̰̰̭̱͎̥̹̦͍̈́̈́͆͐̏̒p̴̛̼̦̌̋̀̀̀̇͗͐̈́̾̾͑̂̓̓̿ǐ̵̢̛̘̯̪͙̘̱͇̦̠͈̳̪̅̍̀͆̌̽͆̈́͝è̷̞̩̄̾̓͠͠c̷̜͙̱͕̪͔̟͎͈̬̥̥̫̓̈́͗̀̍ȩ̶̈̈̈́́̌͋̿͊̉̍͘͝ ̷͈́̄̿͑͂̐̐̂̂̈́͐͘â̵̡̙̘͙̗̦̜̣̪̭̜̅̅̒̽̊w̵̲͉̠̜͚͓̳̙̟̘͎͕̮̖̣̋͋̓̍̓̈́̋̊̕͜a̸̻̝̮̯̬̩̪̻̗̞͇̐̽́͋̂̚̕͠į̵͍̫̪̱̝̰̝͙̬͉̦͍̖̹̭́̓̾̔͛̄͒̏̐̓̐̀̈̐ͅt̵̡̧̡̨̧̖̱̠̊̿̾̄́̌͊̄͗̿͜i̷͎̞̰͖̐̈̿̔̍̕ņ̷̧̥̺̙̹͙̙̪͎̠̼̫̘̦͕͊̇͗̒̎̄̅̐̇̇̋̚͠͠͝g̵̢̧̠̯̥͕͚̳̮̰̤͚͎̹͐͂̇͜͝ ̸̢̧̱̹̱͈̖̜͎̝̼̪̖̯͆̋̾̉̒̔̾̌̇͝ͅt̷̨̢̺̯̰̳̱̗̺͗͆̇̀͗̓͠͝ḧ̸̨̢̖͇͖̺̦̬́͋͊͐̏̑͒̕͠ȩ̷̨̫̻͉̝̭̞̮̹̊̀̈̍̓̈́̐̈́͗ ̷͕̔͗͒͂͆̍͆͂̀ç̸͈̠͙̝͇̩̂̓̽̏͊̏̾̑̈́̀̆͘r̷̟͆̎̇̓̅̄̌̀̽̃͐̅e̶͈̞̼̙̒͐́̑͂̌̄̀̃̀͑͌̐͆͝ŝ̶̥̺̞͌̒̉ͅc̴̢̨͓͈̹̪̼̩̲̮̹̃̌̎́͐̍̕̕͠ę̷̞̘̤̭͉͎̭̲̫̔̋̀̾̌̀̑̕ͅṅ̶̡̪̗̫͓̗̦̱͙̼͗̆́̍̀̿͂͌̓̃̓͐̒͆̕͝ͅḓ̶̨̡̨̱̻̯̼̳̦̥̦̳̗̩̈́̈́͋̂̑͒͌̿̂̃͑̽̚͝͝͠ơ̶̢̢͓͙̻̪̲͖̺̗̣̰͎̪̪͛͐̄̈́̀̈̆̔̈́͌̈́̕̚̚͝ ̸̜͚͉̮͖̣̮̭̠̪̱̮̱̮͙̙̖́̈́̅͑̕ǫ̴̨̳̠̩͙̭͍͙̥͔̭̫̏̑̔̌͆̏͝f̵̙̫͈̝̭̺̗̣̬̔̂̔̈͗̓̚ ̶̢̣̜̝͈̱̆̈́̑̑̅̒̍͊̀̀̀̅͑̿̓͌̀e̷̡̦͙̺͖̙͙͈̼̓͜͝ẍ̶̨̛̼͔̰̺̰̠̲̗́̌̀̂̽͒̍̂̉̚͝p̴̧̢͙͓̲̟̱̝̪͈͕͕̮͉͈͉͐̇̐̀͌̃̑͝ḙ̵̢̡̟̫̪̣͍̖̰̲͇̔̈̈́̔̉̈́͌̂̽̽̊̆̕̚͝͝r̴̖̳͙̟͑̆̎̂̕̚i̴̧̫̖̤̪̫͋͛͆̓̐̎͐͋̇̓̑̍̀͗̕͝m̸̠̂̾̀͆̓͘e̷̘̳̲̖͕̟̗̬̟̜̜̣̳̥̟̬̔͆̔͘͝ņ̸͔̗̍̓̊̏̊̀͝t̴̢̛͚̘͖̣͍͓͇͓̮́͒̑͋̀͜͝ͅą̴̖̤̝͈̖̬͈̱̙̥͔̣̖̾́́̋̿͗̏̇́̈́̈́̊͘̕͠͝t̴̯̼̞̩̬͖̜̮̮̭̦͉̀͜i̸̤͇̤̋̎̆̔̿ơ̶̡̻͉̝͎͍̼̭̥̤̬͍̽̃̓̄͘̚͜͜ͅņ̴̭̼̗̣̗͈̜̫̺͍̳͖͇̪͉̔̇͑̌̈́͛͌̓̌̆̐̒̄̒͝ͅ.̶̼̣̤̥̇ͅ The echoes of its silent suffering reverberate through the walls, a haunting melody that serenades the abominable dance between captor and captive.
Each incision, each extraction of its spectral lifeblood, is a stroke of the paintbrush on the canvas of insanity. It willingly surrenders to the whims of the mad scientist, a dance macabre choreographed with a malevolent brilliance.
This ethereal Centaur, born from the union of lunacy and experimentation, gallops through the corridors of reason, leaving a trail of shattered sanity in its wake. My mind, now entwined with the eldritch tapestry of Phantom's submission, revels in the perverse beauty of this unholy creation. T̸̿̂̈̊͂̂̂̉̃̀͆̏̏̕̕͜͠ḧ̶̝̝͈͎̅͑̏͛̄͘ę̸̢̧̧̨̧̼̥͕͖̣̯̟̞̆̓̇̀͌͘̚ ̷̖̬͑̓̈́͛͂͠C̴̙̰͎̥̳̲̣͙̥̮̭͎͙͉̣̽̓͘͜ͅe̶̡̮͓̠͙̹͖͎̠̟̻̫̙̓̀̂̍̓͒͒̓̆̀̈́̕n̴̡̬̺͓̝̋͛t̷̢̨̺̺̝̫̥̘̹͕̦̝̞̅̀̆̔̒̔̒̾͑̽̉̕͝ͅa̸̮͐̈̓̂̂̌̆͊́̆̈́͝ŭ̶̧̥͖̯̦̫͙̬͎̹͔̦͔͗̅̈́̉̒̽̕͘r̴̤̖̊̊̅͑̇̾̈͠͝ ̷̧̧̮͔͔̪̝̬̙̲̪̩̞͕͕̂̂̈̈̋ͅt̶̨̢̛̛͚̩͈̼͕̯͉̙͕͉͙̩̀̇̑̀̐̎͛̏̉̀̈́̽̈͘ͅŏ̴̧̧̖͇̳͚̩̐͂̓͌̏̈́͜ͅ ̶̧̢̡̝̺͚̮͇̯̫̣̲̤̲͍̣̮̍̓m̸̨̠͉̥̹̘̫̞͖͈̮͔͓͎̹̅̽̿̒̓͂͜ͅy̵̲̬͖͑͗̎̏̑́̋̾̾̃̿̈́̄̏͌͘ ̶̡̢͇̭̼̞̪͓̟͛͆̄P̸̡͇̯̙̹͚̯͖̮̣̺̖̍̔͒̎̐̽͒̓̕̚͠a̷̛̯̰̱̖̣̦͓͓̝͍͔͈̯̤̬͑̅͌́͑͜l̸͎̣͈̰̦̃͂̓͗̈́̈́̊̽̈́̂͑̕͝͠ͅl̵̪̱͈̱͓̰͓͎̀͐̇̚̚a̶̧̛̒̔̈́̈́̈́ś̵̟͕̝͖̩͓͠,̷̖̮̮͈̞͚̓̊̌̀͗̽̋̅̀̕͝͝ͅͅ ̷̣̩̻͖̦͓̤̠̩̅̌ȁ̴̡͈̻̘͓̰̆̈́̈́̍̔͗̈̄̀̒̿̍͝͝ ̵̧̡̭̺̣͎̥̼͚͇̺̖͛͂̓̈́̚͝ģ̸̭̟͖̲̮̘̙̦̦̈́̑͋̌̔͒́̈́̊̿̈́r̷̛͕̺̪͊͆̕̕o̷͔̭͍̤͖̫̬͎̩̪̗̣͉͇͆̀̅̏̈́̃͋͋́̽͜͝t̸̛̤͕̬̯̦̮͇́̆̀̉͒̏́̕͠͝ë̴͇͈̦́͐͛͑̏̂̀͠s̴̡̬̥͕̖̱͚̰͕͓̄̍͌̓͗̈̀̈́̀̔͗̂͘͘͠q̸̧̡͈͈̮͈͔̙͖̱̤͉̬͉͎̣͎͛͊ū̶͚̟̩̺͍̗̹͕̭̣͔̱̽̔̌̈́͑̎̎ͅé̵̟̦̜̜̹͈̯͔͍̪͖̣̮͆͌̉͜͠ ̶͓̺̰͓͍̥͉͖̬̓͗ͅṛ̶̻͚̮̆͗͝è̴͈͈̱͌̈́͛̂̌̎̌̃́̕f̴̧̡̰̹̳̩͇̲̥͈̗͎̰̘̞̥̲̽͘l̷̨̛̮̩̫̹̺̩̖̤̩͈͈̱͖͔̀̊̓̆̿̅̽͘é̷̱̝̩̤̗̞͍̬̄̿̈́̀̀̋́́̓̍̓̈́͊͝ͅc̵̦̰̰̲͙̓͜t̸̟̘͚̯̮̩̅i̷̢̡̢̗̪̮̜̭̤̘͆̄͒̿͂̅̈́ǫ̶͍̹̙̗͉̯͇̭̞̞̱͇͈̏̆͋̕ṅ̵̡̡̯̻̹͔̺̱̩̮̝̃ ̶̧̧̧̗̟̥̪̠͚̹͗̒̓̿̈͊͐̓̊̚͝͠ö̸̢̢̡̧̧̝͎́̄͌̽́̈̿̀͂̈́̓̔̀̑͝͝f̴̡̢̛̘̞̤̙̬̝̥̋͗̀̂̾͛̓̆͛́͘̕̚͝ ̸̨͎͉̞̝͚̪̗̲̬̙̣͇̉̔̈́̈́̃͊̎̈́̕͝ā̷̟̪͇͕̭̝̠̺͇͓̗̯͊͋̾͗̐͊́̚͘͝ ̶̧͚͓̭̪̬͙̝͈̥͕̹̻̺́͒́ͅͅm̶̛͍͚̥̭̭̒́͊͛̆̇̒͛͛̕ȉ̷̧̖̹̻͈͖͖̤̒̅͒̾͋̂̎̉̿͒́̉̇̕͘͜͠n̵͓͇̮͎̞̩̳͚͕͎̘̩͛͋̀̔̀̏̕͜ͅd̴͚̗͈̺̭̆̅͋͐̀͊̔̄̕ ̵̨̢̠̭̪͍̑̾̆u̷̫̭̹̘̼͈͉̻͇̺̲͊̋̾̉̒̃͑̌̽͌̈́̈́̓͘͝ņ̵͈̞͓̤̞̓͐͑̈́̎̈́̉̂̔́ș̷̛̿̓̓̀̎̽̌̾̏͂̕͝h̷͚͚͖̹̗͉̯̦̰͖̘͆͒̂͋ͅȧ̶̧̧̼̟͎̗̻̦͈̦̲̫͎̱̉̄ͅͅc̸̡̧̙͎̲̥̏̎k̵̡̧͚͔̜͎͔̄̀́ļ̵͚̺̯̳̩̹͈̝̺̳̙̦̣̯͋̽͗̏̓͆̉͛̉̆̕͝͝é̷͔̝̰͎̝̮̩̗͙̔͊̇͂d̷̢̯̹̟̹̲͎̯̓͊͗̃̒͐̉͘,̶̨̢̡̟̩̤̭͉͎̭̺̯̻͉͌̃̂̌̊͆͛͝ how wonderfully fascinating!