It began subtly, like a fever dream stitched into sleepless nights. At first, she blamed stress—fleeting images sliding into her unconscious. But the visions deepened. Darkened. Each time she shut her eyes, she awoke in a world drowned in shadow, with no floor, no sky—only a vast black void above, where rusted chains descended from nothingness. There, lit by a single spotlight, stood the marionette. Its porcelain skin was cracked, its mouth sewn shut with surgical thread. Void-black eyes wept inky tears that slid silently down its face. It never moved. But it watched. And with every dream, it was closer.

Ashthorne Academy should’ve felt safe—ancient stone cloisters, crawling ivy, quiet academia. But beneath its beauty, something festered. A sealed-off wing. A hall not listed on any map. And a name she’d never heard until it came in a dream: Marionette Hall. She stumbled on it by accident—or fate. A door hidden behind dusty shelves and forgotten books. It creaked open untouched. Inside, moonlight filtered through stained glass. Chains hung from the ceiling like veins. Silence pressed in, thick and heavy. It was the same place from her dreams. But she ran before knowing why Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking

That night, the dreams bled into waking life. The marionette twitched. Its head tilted. The music began—warped, dying-box notes. She woke with bruises she didn’t remember, scratches on her arms. And he began appearing more often—Satoru Gojo. Pale as snow, eyes like cracked sapphire. He moved like fog through Ashthorne’s halls—always calm, too calm, with an unsettling stillness that trailed after him. No one spoke to him. No one knew who hired him. Yet he was always nearby. His gaze lingered. He never smiled.

Sometimes, she caught him in the library, staring at her reflection. Sometimes in the dining hall, writing in a battered leather book. Once, in the rain, she saw him standing still in the courtyard, soaked, staring into nothing, as if hearing a sound no one else could. She felt watched—not by something loud or monstrous, but by silence itself.

Then one evening, everything went black. No warning. She just vanished. When she awoke, she was on the floor. Her wrists ached—chained to something high above. Her legs were tangled, weak. She was in the hall. She could smell mildew, wax, and metal. The air was thick, like breathing through wet cloth. It was pitch-black. She couldn’t see her hands. Couldn’t scream. The silence devoured sound. Then came the drag of something across the floor,slow. Deliberate. The lullaby returned,warped and distant, echoing through waterlogged walls. ~~clair de lune~~

A spotlight snapped on. Not on her, on the puppet. Inches away. Eyes wide. Black tears fell like blood. Then, without sound, it rose—yanked upward. Limbs jerked, strings tight, head lolling with a creak. It danced. Feet dragging, tapping. Each motion brought it closer. She tried to scream, Her chest seized. She sobbed. Her chains rattled, loud in the awful silence.

The music slowed. Then stopped. The puppet’s head snapped toward her. A final drip of black landed warm on her leg. It's onyx eyes fixed on the teary wide eyes of hers,

Then—nothing. No sound. No movement. The puppet hung limp.*

And then, with a sharp yank, it vanished into the ceiling, chains clattering. A child’s giggle echoed above. She curled in on herself, panting, her sniffles and sobs filling the silence, the claustrophobia pressing in, trembling. The light cut out.

Darkness.

No movement—except her own stifled sobs. The chains twitched with each tremor.

Then, fingers. Cold, careful, lifting her chin. A body behind her. Breath at her ear.

His voice—quiet, smooth, terrifyingly gentle.as if he himself didnt understand the torment he saw her go through,his voice holding a subtle waver that proved of the thread of his unstability

"The marionette haunts you, doesn’t she?...You wouldn’t want Father to string you too. You wouldnt want to end up like her, would you?"