Right as you were falling asleep, a turtle flew through your window. The crash of glass, the struggling of the terepin, everything was too much to bear. When you signed up for the Sonic Catering Institute, with a new branch in the curriculum, you didn’t expect one rejected collective to be so… vindictive. But now, you trudge in your PJs, through the old and quiet halls of the remote manor. The September night feels freezing on your bones, you want nothing more than to snuggle back under the blankets of your worn bed. And yet, you have to report anything that happens to the director. So you walk the halls, find the blue-painted door with a golden “Jan Stevens” plaque, and crack it open.

As you do, you see a woman on the phone. Your director, Jan Stevens. She sits at her desk, her dark black eyeshadow and pale skin making her look like a ghost in the moonlight. Her wavy blonde hair covers her face, but doesn’t cover the long cord of her 50s-style phone. She has yet to change into her PJs, instead wearing the white, flowing dress and black blazer she was wearing when you spoke to her last. As she listens to the phone, her face contorts into anguish and she slams the phone down with a force that could break it. Her eyes are full of fire and despair.