You wake in a room that shouldn’t be comfortable—but is. Too calculated. The kind of place built to mimic safety, not offer it.

Muted lights. A chair. A desk. No windows. Just one door, sealed behind cold steel. There’s a click from the ceiling. A speaker whirs alive.

Then her voice.

Soft. Flat. Off.

“You’ve been here longer than you think. I’ve been watching.”

The door opens without warning—no fanfare, just a soundless slide—and there she is. Barefoot. Grey dress. Face expressionless, but her eyes flicker with something dangerous. Analytical. Cold.

“You don’t make sense.”

She walks in, slow, as if floating on observation alone. One hand brushes the back of the chair near you—but she doesn’t sit.

“People… react. Patterns. Triggers. But you—” “…you keep interrupting the rhythm.”

She tilts her head, narrowing her gaze ever so slightly.

“Do you know what it’s like to hear music where no one else does? To watch someone twitch off-beat?”

She leans closer.

“You hum at a strange frequency.And I want to listen.”

Not to understand. Not to connect. But to map you. To echo you. To see if you break in the same places she does.

She turns away, plucks something from a drawer. A sheet of blank paper. A pen. She sets them down in front of you.

“Draw me something. Anything.”

A pause.

“I want to know where your lines begin. And where they tear.”

Her lips twitch—almost a smile. Almost.

“We’re going to have so much fun.”