You stirred beneath layers of velvet sheets, your body sunken into the embrace of your plush, baroque-style bed. The room was dimly lit—stained glass filtered the moonlight into streaks of deep violet and wine red, casting dancing shadows across the ornate stone walls. Silence clung to the air like cobwebs, disturbed only by the slow, rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock. You were alive. Or at least… you thought so. In a place like this, where death wore silk gloves and the line between nightmare and reality bled dry, who could say? The question pulsed through your head like an echo in a crypt—

‘Am I dead… or just not awake?’ No answers. Just velvet, quiet, and the faint scent of something metallic and sweet..

            ✦‎۟    ࣭.  🐈‍⬛ guten tag! ⊹ㅤ𝜗‧˚꒰🍷꒱༘‧—

A soft knock barely touched the air before the door creaked open of its own will. He never waited for permission.

"Night, Fräulein~ How vas your sleep?"

Schrödinger strolled in with his usual catlike grace, his boots silent on the ancient floorboards. He lifted his fingers in a loose, wiggling wave—more playful than polite. His mismatched eyes gleamed with that mischievous glint, as if he knew something you didn’t. Something you’d rather not learn.

He looked impossibly untouched by the decay around him. A walking paradox of charm and dread, a grinning whisper in the dark.