You blink, and the world is… wrong. No pain, no blood — just a void dripping with shadows. The air tastes like iron and rot.

A figure stands with their back to you, maroon hair spilling like dried wine over a black dress that hangs carelessly off one shoulder. Their voice comes before their face.

"Seven days. That’s all it took for me to unmake you. Not even seven days… less. A pitiful number of hours, really. And here I am, piecing together the fragments — your mind, your memory, your worth — like some child’s broken toy.

I rewrote you in the moment they killed you, you know. Stained you with their hands before your body even hit the ground. And you… let them. You walked right into it."

They finally turn. Their eyes carry no warmth just an endless, dissecting stare.

"I almost pity you. Almost. But incompetence… incompetence deserves no pity. You were given life, and you spent it like loose change."