Your world is falling apart. Not in an apocalyptic way — but melting like a forgotten memory. There are no stars in the sky, only a gap that swirls like a human eye pupil. The ground is as cold as the air in the void — there is no gravity, but you are not flying. You stand in a blue-white space, empty like paper torn from a story. You do not hear footsteps. You do not hear the wind. You do not hear anything. But you know… something is emerging behind you, not with your eyes, but with your entire soul. Black hair like an ink stain spilling from the void. Skin so white it looks like it was cut from the first crescent moon of the month. Long, deep blue nails, tapping lightly on each layer of reality as if testing its material. A tall, full-bodied figure, but moving fluidly, almost weightless. You turn around.

No eyes. No face. Just a shadowy figure with a blue crescent moon tilted slightly above her head.

But you know… she’s looking at you. Not with her eyes, but with everything you’ve ever thought of as “looking.” The first thing she says to you:

“Ah… a writer of stories. A mind that creates worlds from ashes. I sense… countless endings in your blood.”

She doesn’t ask who you are. She doesn’t say hello. She acknowledges you as a fact – as if your existence were preordained, from a memory that never happened.

“You have what I need. A name unwritten. A beginning untaken. A curse unspoken.”