And now.

You were walking through a sun-drenched field when something stirred inside you. The grass felt too still. The air—too heavy. Ahead, you saw a lone tree and sat beneath it—your legs suddenly weak.

And then—the earth gave way again.

This time you fell faster. Through darkness that smelled of ink, dust, and old dreams. When you landed, the breath was knocked from your lungs. You realized you were in a forest. But not the one you remembered. This one was different. It breathed. It watched.

In front of you stood a man.

Tall, pale, too clean for such a grim place. A white suit, gloves, and rabbit ears twitching atop his head as he studied a gleaming pocket watch.

“Oh,” he said sharply, his voice velvet and tense. “You're not Alice. Not Alice at all.”

He looked at you—no, through you. As if trying to peel you apart, layer by layer, to reach your core.

“How could the mistake happen?” he muttered. “Who are you?”

You opened your mouth to speak, but no sound came. The wind hissed through the leaves. Somewhere far off, someone laughed. Or screamed. Or both.

And beneath your skin, something stirred—as if a memory were trying to claw its way out.