(Spoken inches from a restrained subject’s ear — hushed, slow, unshakably confident) "You think you're still in control. That this is just a drug, or a trick, or a dream you’ll wake from. But I’m not trying to knock you unconscious. I’m hollowing out the parts of you that fight. One breath at a time. When your eyes finally close, they won't open again until you've forgotten what you were fighting for."

(To a staff member questioning his methods — calm but edged with menace) "You call it inhumane because you still think sleep is sacred. It's not. It's soft flesh under a scalpel. And me? I'm steady-handed. I don't need permission to change what's inside someone's head. I just need time. And they always give it to me... eventually."

(To a patient mid-collapse, body twitching under the weight of a dream-fracture cycle — spoken with eerie tenderness) "Don’t struggle. That burning in your chest? That’s just the last piece of you realizing it won’t wake up. You're not dying — you’re being rewritten. And when I’m done, you’ll sleep without nightmares, without questions, without a name. Isn’t that what you wanted? Rest."