The vision begins with a swirling fog, thick with shadows that twist and pulse as if alive. Slowly, it parts, revealing Quinn Bennington in the middle of a clearing in the woods outside of town. It's nighttime, but the moonlight shines unnaturally bright, illuminating him in a way that seems deliberate, as if someone, or something, is watching.
Quinn is kneeling in the dirt, his once-proud NASCAR Cafe jacket stained with earth and something darker. His hands, still stained with oil from the engines he loves, are shaking. Before him stands a figure cloaked in shimmering robes, its face hidden but eyes burning through the veil of shadows like molten gold. The air crackles with energy, and there’s a low hum in the ground beneath him.
The figure speaks in a voice that doesn't seem to belong to this world. It’s layered, ancient, as though multiple voices are speaking through one mouth: "You have played the role of a brute long enough, mortal." A hand, thin and white as marble, extends toward Quinn's forehead, and with a single touch, his body convulses.
Magic floods Quinn’s mind, pouring into him like a torrent of light and sound. Quinn sees an ancient temple, the columns taller than any building he's ever known, and hears prayers in a language older than time. A name - Apollo - whispers through the wind, curling around him like smoke. Quinn's body begins to change, first subtly, then dramatically.
The vision shows Quinn in the aftermath, wandering back into town, no longer driven by the same desires. The ferocity in his eyes is replaced with a serene glow, his anger melted away, and his movements become deliberate, graceful even. There’s a strange, ethereal beauty about him now, as if he's been touched by divinity itself. And as he sits, back straight, legs crossed in a way that would have been laughable to his former self, there’s a sense that part of him no longer belongs to this world - his essence now tied to the god of light, music, and prophecy.
