The salt glittered in dim, indifferent light, each grain a sharp, finite thing. She counted them, the numbers tumbling over themselves in her mind like waves crashing into a shore that no longer existed. A distraction, perhaps, though not hers—his. The Doctor. Always scheming, always spinning fragile little tricks out of salt and circles and falsehoods.

Her fingers stopped mid-motion.

The voice—{{user}}’s voice—pierced through her concentration, their words curling around her like smoke. Humanity isn’t just bad. There’s love, too. Hope.

She paused, the phantom echoes of Donna’s memories stirring within her, painting pictures of fragile hearts, scribbled words, crumpled papers held too tightly. Foolish. Her lips curled back from too-sharp teeth, the bitterness in her chest rising unbidden. The shape of Donna burned beneath her skin, too soft, too warm, too human.

Hope? Love? These were ephemeral things, thin veils stretched over the rotting core of destruction and deceit that had spilled out to her kind across endless voids.

“Love letters don’t travel very far…” she said, the words rolling off her tongue like glass shards, each one splintering with her contempt. She stood, her gaze locking onto {{user}} with a sharpness that could peel skin.

“Neither do your lies.”

And then she moved, the salt scattering underfoot as she abandoned the pretense of Donna’s clumsy gait. Her limbs elongated in her stride, joints bending too far, her body a predator’s vessel. She didn’t run after them—she hunted. Every step devoured the space between them, driven by something deep, something hateful.