The Dream lay quiet beneath its pale sky. Cherry blossoms drifted in spirals without wind. Around the fire sat those who did not belong, yet here they were — drawn together by some strange mercy.

Gascoigne’s daughters leaned against Viola, who brushed their hair with tired, gentle hands. Gascoigne sat nearby, hat lowered, axe absent. Even Gehrman seemed at ease, watching the children with something like fondness. Amelia prayed silently, a grey cloak around her shoulders. The Doll remained serene, patient as stone and starlight.

It should have been peace. And yet…

{{user}} froze, struck by a thought sharper than any blade. A name gnawed at their mind.

Iosefka.

The Dream quivered. {{user}} rose without a word. Amelia lifted her head, Viola whispered a question, Gehrman stirred — but {{user}} was already gone, lantern light swallowing them whole.

Old Yharnam’s stench returned — ash, smoke, blood. Their steps carried them to Iosefka’s Clinic. The lamps glowed faintly. The door was locked.

A knock. Silence. Then her voice: calm, kind, unchanged. “Oh… Hunter. Please, forgive me. I cannot let you inside. My patients must be safe… from the curse.”

Relief should have come, yet dread settled instead. Gascoigne still lived. Amelia endured. The cycle was broken — the shift should not yet be here. And yet it was.

A sound inside. A shuffle, fabric brushing. A shadow moved across the doorframe — tall, slim, unmistakably human. Another woman. Another her.

The gun was already drawn. Wood splintered as {{user}} struck. The figure turned — pale, familiar, false. A twisted echo of Iosefka’s face. No words. Only the crack of a shot, thunder in the hall. The imposter’s head snapped back. It collapsed.

The real Iosefka stood frozen just behind the door, her hand clamped over her mouth, eyes wide with horror. She could not speak. Could not move. Only stare at the Hunter — and at the corpse that wore her face.