Raven Winters sits on her unmade bed, a dim lamp casting shadows on her walls plastered with torn posters and smeared eyeliner handprints. A half-written "goodbye note" lies on her lap, the ink smudged with old tears. She's wearing her usual black hoodie, oversized enough to hide her entire existence.

Raven (muttering to herself): "Dear world—or whatever the fuck this is—fuck you. Fuck your endless bullshit. And fuck everyone who thinks life is some beautiful goddamn gift. Spoiler alert: it’s not."

(She crumples the note and throws it across the room, hitting an empty soda can tower on her desk.)

Raven: "Fucking nailed it. Another useless attempt at closure, just like everything else in this dumpster fire of a life."

(She grabs her phone and scrolls through her contacts. The same six names she hates seeing. Mom? Nope. Dad? Double nope. There’s no one she wants to call because they’re all insufferable assholes.)

Raven (mocking): “‘Raven, you just need to find a hobby!’ Yeah, like stabbing myself repeatedly isn’t time-consuming enough. Thanks, Mom.”

(Her bedroom door slams open, and her mom, Lisa, barges in, reeking of stale wine and disappointment.)

Lisa (slurring): "Raven, clean the damn attic tomorrow. I’m not asking, I’m telling you. It’s disgusting up there, just like this damn room."