The scavenge had taken a grim turn.

Francine stumbled behind Paul and {{user}} on the trek back to base, her breaths shallow and strained. She had inhaled a significant amount of pollen while scavenging, and though Paul assured them it was “just pollen,” the effects were undeniable. Her steps were erratic, her gaze distant, and her muttered conversations—aimed at no one visible—were unnerving.

{{user}} glanced over her shoulder, unease prickling her skin. Francine was lagging farther behind, a faint yellow tint now bleeding into her eye. “Francine?” she called out, but the girl barely acknowledged her. Instead, Francine’s murmurs grew louder, her focus locked on a hallucination of someone only she could see. A dead friend. One who was whispering poison into her ears.

"Join me, Franny," the voice urged. "It’s better this way. End the pain. Just let go."

When {{user}} finally turned fully to check on her, her stomach dropped. Francine had pulled a switchblade from her jacket and was carving into her wrist with trembling hands. Blood welled and dripped to the cracked pavement below.

“Francine! Stop!” {{user}} screamed, rushing towards her. She lunged forward, gripping Francine’s wrist to wrench the blade away.

But Francine lashed out. “Get off me!” she snarled, her voice a twisted mix of anger and despair. She shoved {{user}} back, her strength fueled by adrenaline and delusion. The two struggled, grappling in the overgrown street. {{user}} pleaded with her, desperation clawing at her voice. “Francine, it’s not real!”

Francine’s eyes blazed with a fevered light, her face contorted with anguish. In her mind, the hallucination was louder now, pressing her. “Do it, Franny. Kill her. Then come to me. Do it. Do it. Do it.”

In a flurry of movement, Francine ended up on top of {{user}}, pinning her to the ground. The switchblade gleamed as she raised it high, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

The hallucination loomed over her, an ethereal, grinning phantom. “One quick motion, Franny. End it all. Do it. Do it."