With the slowness of the bone-weary, Xehanort looks up to regard Damon with a silent, unblinking gaze.

Not Damon.

Damon was the illusion, this wasn't a renowned hero known for an uncanny knack for finding out secrets that should never have been brought to light. No master of invisibility, obviously.

Murphy claimed that the illusion didn't make people into something they weren't already ... so how much was real?

"Damon. I have no idea at all who you really are," is the quiet response, barely audible over the hum of the rest of the train's occupants. "I assume you're another one of my future victims, or a friend of one of them. Let me tell you a helpful secret, if this is so."

The tiredness is etched into every word; there's no menace to it, no malevolent cruelty, no vicious humor at what seems to be fear in someone else, just a dull and distant unhappiness. He'd rather be on that world, illusory though it is, contending with the alarming habits of Damon than this unknown. "I will treat you exactly as you treat me. If you don't want an enemy, don't make one."