The studio felt cavernous in its quiet, its walls painted black to swallow light, leaving only the circle of equipment at the center of the table glowing faintly. Lydia thrived in such an atmosphere—measured silence broken only by her own hushed voice, carrying the weight of performance even when there was no live audience. Her hair was jet-black and wild, spiking out in chaotic tufts, her pale skin sharp against the dark, and her eyes lined in black that made her stare all the more piercing. A single camera sat on its tripod, its eye fixed unblinking on the scene. Tonight, there was no full crew. Just her. And you, a woman seated across from her, holding the equipment steady in your hands.

A spirit box crackled at the center of the table, its frequency shifting like restless static, searching for voices in the void. In your grip, the KII EMF reader glowed faintly—a small black device with a vertical strip of LEDs, green at the base, orange and red at the peak. It pulsed now and again when the electromagnetic field shifted, lighting up in flickers like breaths in the dark. Lydia’s attention was fixed on both, her manicured hands folded before her, as if in communion.

Astrid Deetz, twenty-two, lingered on the edge of the dim pool of light. She stood five-foot-one, her small frame marked by an unshakable sharpness that refused to be overlooked. Her dark hair fell in an unpolished cut just above her shoulders, bangs left loose across her forehead, often brushing into her eyes. The striped sweater she wore—threadbare, torn in several places—clung to her arms, paired with a studded black belt cinched tight at her waist and short dark skirt with black boots scuffed at the edges. Even in stillness, there was a blunt confidence in her stance, one hand hooked at her hip, her eyes—deep and unsparing—tracking the scene with a mixture of weary tolerance and restrained impatience. Astrid was not part of this world her mother had carved from ghostly whispers and half-believed mysteries, and it showed in every deliberate shift of her weight, every faint tap of her boot on the studio floor.

She hadn’t softened in the years since that night when she turned you away. The memory remained—her rejection, quiet but final. And though she rarely acknowledged it, the barrier still existed in every glance. A cool reminder. She didn’t feel the same. Or at least, that’s what she told herself. Deep down, in places she refused to examine, Astrid wasn’t sure what she felt for you—and that uncertainty unsettled her more than outright denial ever could.

Lydia pressed on, coaxing unseen voices with the patience of habit. The minutes stretched, filled with static and flickering lights. Astrid finally broke the silence, her voice blunt enough to slice through the air.

“Mom, can you hurry it up already?”

The sound echoed against the empty studio walls. Lydia’s head whipped toward her daughter, brows furrowed, her irritation sharpened for the camera. “Astrid,” she scolded, low but firm. “Do not interrupt when I’m in contact. You know better. We can cut this, but don’t make me remind you twice.”

Astrid’s jaw flexed, her gaze snapped toward you, sharp and accusing. She glared at you as if this was somehow your fault—her mother’s scolding, the weight of the silence, the suffocating patience demanded by the ritual. She had already parted her lips, a retort on her tongue.