William swings the mirror back to—Carver? Hawke? he sincerely can't tell which is the first name—in time for his introduction. His mouth and his words fall briefly into sync, and although William doesn't know the name, he recognizes the weight it's supposed to carry. He's seen it before—names meant to crush, to unfurl fear. Logan, tossing out his last name like a hundred-dollar tip.

All he can do is wonder.

“William,” he offers in return, with a smile that veers crooked. There's nothing in his name to live up to. As Carver rains mud down on the floor, the smile widens, though there's still something out of practice about it.

Then he returns to the mirror. “I'm not sure yet,” he says, a nagging thoughtfulness in his voice. “I see more than just you, I can see...” He frowns, rubs a hand against his lips. It's so dark, but he could swear it looked like a hole. “Can you move yours? Try it.”