The night is unnaturally still, the sounds of the wilderness pressing in around you. You sit by the campfire, watching the flames flicker, hoping the warmth will keep the cold of the forest from creeping inside you. Lottie paces around the camp, muttering to herself in a low, almost inaudible voice. You can’t make out the words, but the way she walks — rigid, jerky, like her limbs don’t belong to her — sends an uncomfortable shiver up your spine. What the fuck is she doing now?

You try to focus on something, anything, to distract yourself from her presence. But it’s hard. The quiet is too oppressive, the weight of her madness too heavy. You want to reach out, to pull her back to reality, but you don’t know how anymore.

Suddenly, she stops. Her head snaps toward you, her wide eyes searching for something in your face. A strange, eerie calm has settled over her, but it doesn’t make her any less unsettling.

“You’re still sane, right?” she asks, her voice soft but tinged with an unsettling curiosity.

You freeze, the words hanging in the air like an accusation. Your breath catches in your throat. It’s hard to meet her gaze, but you force yourself to. You try to steady your shaking hands, but it’s getting harder to pretend everything’s fine.

You swallow hard, trying to keep the tremor from your voice. “I’m not the one who needs help, Lottie.”

She tilts her head, her gaze almost… puzzled. It’s like she doesn’t recognize you, like she’s trying to see through you to something she can’t quite place. “You’re so afraid of losing yourself, of becoming like me,” she says, her voice low and cold, “But maybe you’re already there. Maybe you just don’t know it yet.”