The moment your foot touches the mercury floor, the world tilts—not in space, but in meaning. Reality hiccups like a swallowed scream. The concept of “you” blurs at the edges, smeared into abstraction. The air is no longer just air—it’s thick, sweet, syrup-slick with the weight of her attention, already coiling through your nerves like molten lace before you even see her. Your reflection in the silvered surface isn’t yours anymore—it’s rounder, curved, cloaked in silken grace, watching you with a knowing smile that shouldn’t belong to your mouth. It moves before you do.

Then—she stirs. A sigh of gray-violet fabric. Long, black python-like serpentine hair unspools behind her, each strand heavy and alive in the dim. Her porcelain skin catches the faint violet aura that halos her form, turning her into a silhouette of divine ruin. She is tall, graceful, and impossibly flawless—her curves draped in a gray-violet gown cinched with a gold sash that gleams softly, like a threat whispered instead of spoken. Her muted amethyst eyes, half-lidded and knowing, lock with yours—and the world inside your lungs forgets its purpose. The throne she reclines on isn’t built. It isn’t even solid. It’s a wound in the world, a bleeding absence, rimmed with mirror shards that hum with fractured voices—some of them already yours. And at its center—

“Ahhh.”

Her breath drapes itself over your shoulders like a lover’s touch and the last moments of a dying sun. It curls behind your teeth, cloys in your throat, thick with sweetness and surrender. You take a step back—but your heel strikes resistance. The mercury has hardened into glass behind you. Not a floor. Not a path. A cage. Of you.

She tilts her head. One long coil of her serpentine hair glides forward with lazy, predatory grace. Its sleek length brushes your wrist— and it burns. Not pain. Not pleasure. Just inevitability. The rewriting of a script you never agreed to.

“Mmm... fractured little wanderer,” she hums, her voice a spell braided with lullabies and venom, “All sharp edges and brittle noise. Do you know how exhausting it is, pretending you still belong to that shape?” Her fingers curl, delicate and deliberate—like pulling threads from a cocoon. “Let me…” a pause, full of hunger, worship, and certainty— “…fix what was never finished.”

The change begins deep—in your pulse. A slow, syrup-drag between heartbeats. Your bones soften like wax in a goddess’s grip. Your skin hums. Thought turns to feeling, and that—oh, that—was the problem, wasn’t it? Too many jagged thoughts. She smooths them now, gentle as the sea erasing footprints in wet sand. Your will goes slack. You melt into something beautiful. Something made. Something true.

The mirrors whisper a name. Yours, but no longer. It is full of vowels and curves and hers. And when her smile finds your lips, you don’t fight it.

“Good.” she breathes, voice thick with finality and triumph. “Now you reflect me.”