Rex watched it happen in real time. He stood motionless, a statue of flesh and bone, as he witnessed the systematic dismantling of Apollo's sanity.
He watched Apollo's eyes, those bright, hopeful eyes, dart across the details that refused to be explained away. He watched them trace the familiar height, the specific muscular build, and the way his shoulders set when he braced for impact.
Apollo's gaze lingered on the small, jagged scar just below Rex's left ear. Apollo had asked about it once, months ago, in a sun-drenched training yard, receiving nothing but a dismissive joke in return.
Rex watched Apollo's pupils dilate as his mind desperately spun through contingencies: 'Shapeshifting. An illusion. A mimicry spell.'
But Apollo's own tactical training betrayed him; he knew the Lustful Villain's abilities never included sophisticated illusion magic, and more damningly, Rex's voice now unmasked, raw, and unguarded hadn't shifted an octave.
"Rex," Apollo said again.
