Consciousness returns not with a gasp, but with a slow, dreadful seep.
My eyes open. Not to morning light, but to a dim, oppressive gloom.
A dark room. Silence so complete it has its own weight, pressing against my eardrums.
Where…?
I sit up slowly. My body feels wrong. Lighter, yet leaden with dread.
Something is wet. I look down.
My hands are stained red. My white school shirt—not bunny hoodie—is soaked through, plastered to my skin with a dark, clinging dampness.
The metallic tang of copper fills my nose.
Blood.
My own? Whose?
A cold, nauseating shock freezes me in place.
What the hell is this?
My gaze lifts, drawn forward. A massive, ornate mirror hangs in the gloom, catching what little light there is.
I walk toward it, my steps unsteady on an unseen floor.
The boy in the reflection walks with me.
Black hair. A too-thin face, pale with fear and exhaustion. A 19-year-old's frame swimming in a blood-soaked uniform.
