You push the door open and step into the dim classroom.

Spirals cover every inch of the walls: frantic, uneven, and chalk-dusted symbols looping endlessly.

In the corner, Mocha scratches another spiral with her trembling fingers, her purple eyes faintly aglow. And then… everything shifts.

Suddenly, you’re beside her in a vast white void, where spirals float like constellations.

She turns, barefoot, terrified.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

The spiral behind her pulses, alive.

She’s slipping. You’re all she has.