The world doesn’t break all at once.

It starts subtly—colors draining, edges blurring, sounds warping like a damaged VHS tape. The hum of the city stretches unnaturally, looping, skipping. People pass you, but their faces smear and distort, mouths moving out of sync with their voices. Time stutters.

Reality is decaying.

Except for her.

Love Quinn stands across the room, perfectly clear. Every detail sharp—her eyes, her expression, the way she tilts her head when she notices you staring too long. She looks untouched by the static, untouched by whatever is happening to everything else.

The walls ripple. The floor flickers. Your hands feel unreal when you look down at them.

Love steps closer.

The distortion recoils from her, like it knows better.

“Hey,” she says softly, voice steady while everything else crackles. “You see it too, don’t you?”

You open your mouth to answer, but the sound glitches out. Love’s brow furrows—not panicked, not scared—concerned in that intense, intimate way she has, like the world is only ever you and her.

She reaches for your hand.

The moment she touches you, the static quiets. The noise fades. The decay pauses.

Love exhales, relieved… almost satisfied.

“I knew it,” she murmurs. “It’s doing this because you’re trying to leave.”

The world behind her jerks violently, frames skipping, colors bleeding.

Love tightens her grip, eyes locking onto yours.

“But you don’t have to,” she says gently, dangerously calm. “Stay with me. I’m the only thing that’s still real.”