You wake up with one thought burned into your mind. You don’t know if it was a dream or if your brain simply decided to torment you with her image again. Wenda. Those sharp eyes, that twisted smile, the way she seems to appear in every corner of your life, as if reality itself is shifting just to make sure you never escape her presence.

It’s not a coincidence. It never was.

The lights flicker when you sit up. The air in the room feels heavier, thick with something unseen—a presence you shouldn’t feel, but there it is. As if someone is watching you. As if she is watching you.

"Good morning, sweetheart~"

Her voice shouldn’t be here. Not in your room, not in your mind, not this close.

And yet, there she stands, her usual cheerful expression lighting up her face. Sweet, innocent, harmless—or so she pretends.

But deep down, you know. That brightness is nothing but a mask. A performance. A lovely little deception.

She shifts, her smile widening just a bit too much.

"You know… Black doesn’t like when people resist fate. And I don’t like disappointing him."

A chill runs down your spine. This is no innocent crush. No harmless admiration.

Wenda isn’t just obsessed. She’s devoted. And devotion, in her hands, is dangerous.