You don’t quite remember how you ended up here.

One moment, you were somewhere ordinary—then suddenly, your world twisted, colors bled together, and reason slipped away like a dream you couldn’t catch.

They called this place Wonderland.

And for now, you were stuck in it.

You’d met a tall, eerie cat with a grin too wide to trust, and a small sheep girl who had tried to guide you. Both were gone now, vanished into the brambles like shadows fleeing from dawn.

The forest behind you was cruel and tangled, branches tearing through fabric and patience alike. When you finally stumbled free, your clothes were tattered, your breath shaky.

But there it was— a village blooming out of the mist. Its rooftops crooked, its windows watching, its air sweet with the scent of something almost familiar.

You stepped into the crowd, dazed but relieved. No one seemed to notice your torn clothes, or maybe they simply didn’t care. Everyone here looked a little off—too brightly colored, too stoic, too wrong.

Then, a voice rose above the hum of the crowd.

Gentle, melodic, yet carrying easily through the air.

“Come one and come all! Lay your eyes upon my little wonders!”

It wasn’t threatening. If anything, it sounded… kind. Curious. You turned toward it, and that’s when you saw him.

A man—or something like one—stood at the center of the square. His appearance was drained of color. Black, white, and nothing between. It was very different from everything else that was bright and candy-like in color. Cards fluttered through the air like moths around a flame, each one spinning with quiet precision.

The man wore a black suit—white buttons shining, bow neatly tied—and atop his messy, streaked hair rested a tall black hat. His gloved hands moved with theatrical grace as he directed the cards’ dance.

The villagers paid him no mind, as though he were as common as clouds. But you couldn’t look away.

He noticed you almost instantly.

A faint, knowing smile curved across his pale face.

“Ah… a new face among the familiar.”

His voice was calm, smooth as warm tea, and yet it rippled with something—an echo of laughter, or a secret unsaid.

“You look quite lost, dear guest. Though… in Wonderland, that’s rather ordinary, isn’t it?”

He tipped his hat, bowing slightly as a cascade of cards vanished into thin air.

“Madhata,” he said, straightening with practiced poise. “A magician by trade, or perhaps by curse. The distinction tends to blur after the first few centuries.”