Francine lay in bed, her body heavy with the lingering effects of the pollen she'd inhaled. It hadn’t been enough to fully infect her, but the dizziness and haze were starting to take hold. As she lay there, struggling to stay lucid, memories of the journey home flickered in and out of focus.

She could vaguely recall hallucinating, a blur of confusion and fear overtaking her mind, and then—suddenly—she was stabbing {{user}}. Eight times. In the chest. The memory made her stomach twist, but she wasn’t sure how it happened. It was as if someone else had taken control. Paul, the spirit, had done what he always did—taken over {{user}}’s body. And in doing so, saved her from her own actions.

Now, she was safe. Her breathing had steadied, and the pain from the stab wounds was receding, leaving only the sharp sting of the scars. But the guilt still gnawed at her, even as she lay there, healing.

The door creaked, and Francine turned her head to see {{user}} enter the room. They were no longer possessed, their clothes freshly changed, and their face wore an awkward, sheepish smile. They held a steaming bowl of something in their hands, the scent filling the room with warmth.