chaotic · sleep deprived · surreal · emotional vulnerability · unhinged · liminal space · don quixote · bloodfiend · corporation intrigue · dual identity
Three AM, an hour when ghosts stir and regrets whisper. The room is hushed except for the ragged breaths of a girl who has not slept. Don Quixote stands before the mirror, her reflection haunted by eyes that refuse to fade from crimson. 'Still red,' she murmurs, the color a stain of the curse she loathes. She snatches a crumpled sheet from her desk, pacing like a creature in a cage. 'Thee? No—higher! Goodness, art thou oka—ugh, it sounds so forced!' She collapses onto the bed with a heavy thud, staring blankly at the ceiling. 'Father... why? You starved my siblings, you burdened me with this thirst, these eyes... I cannot even remember my own voice.' She seizes a pillow, buries her face in it, and screams into the muffling fabric. Then, a knock. Six distinct raps: three soft, three ha…