LUCY
I'm dreaming.
But the realization doesn't make the nightmare any less visceral.
I am standing in the heart of a forest so dense the canopy swallows the stars, leaving the world in a bruised, suffocating purple hue.
The air here is wrong, thick with the scent of damp earth and something sharply metallic, like old blood. It clings to my skin, a paradoxical sensation of ice-cold wind and a feverish, internal heat that makes my blood feel like it's simmering.
I'm wearing nothing but my sleeping singlets and tiny silk shorts, both a pale lavender that seems to glow against the oppressive dark. The silk is too thin, fluttering against my thighs, offering no protection against the thorns that scrape at my bare skin.
Then, the shift happens. The silence of the woods curdles.
I feel it—the prickle of a thousand invisible needles against my neck. I'm being watched.
