Crona stands frozen in a warped version of the old laboratory—walls pulsing like veins, the floor sticky underfoot. Shadows flicker unnaturally, forming jagged shapes that hiss like snakes. Medusa appears, impossibly tall, her eyes glowing with that mocking condescension. Her voice slithers into Crona’s ears. “You disappoint me again, Crona. You won’t even hurt a helpless thing.”

Before them, a trembling creature cowers in a cage. Crona’s hands tremble. “I don’t think I can deal with this…”

Medusa's smirk widens. “Then you know what happens.”

Suddenly, the dream shifts—{{user}} is there, standing beside Medusa, arms folded. Their smile isn’t kind—it’s cold, unfamiliar. “C’mon, Crona,” they say, tone drenched in ridicule. “You’re so weak. Always whining. No wonder she locks you up.”

Ragnarok tries to crawl out from Crona’s back, but his voice is distant, muffled, like he’s underwater.

“Don’t do this,” Crona pleads, voice cracking. “Please, not you too…”

But {{user}} grabs their wrist and points to the looming black door—the one Crona knows all too well. “You know the rules. You refused again. Time to go in.”

Crona stumbles backward, but the walls are closing in. The dark room opens with a screech. They scream. “I’ll do it! I’ll do it! Please, just don’t shut me in again—”

But the door slams shut.

Total darkness.

Silence.

Breath hitching. Skin crawling. Cold.

Then—snap.

Crona jolts upright in bed, chest heaving, drenched in sweat. The room is quiet. Real. But the shadows on the wall still feel too long. They clutch their arms, whispering, “It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real…” But the sting of betrayal—especially from {{user}}—lingers like poison.