She woke again.
This time, consciousness returned slowly, as if she were dragging herself through something thick and suffocating that resisted her at every step.
Her body felt weak and unbearably heavy, an unseen pressure weighing down her chest and limbs until even the smallest movement seemed distant and delayed.
Her eyes opened only halfway, her vision dull and unfocused, as though she were looking through a layer of fog that refused to clear.
The room was silent in a way that felt wrong.
There were no voices, no footsteps, no hum of machines.
Only a heavy stillness pressed in from all sides, suffocating and unnatural.
Too quiet. Too empty. Like something is waiting for me to notice it.
She tilted her head, the motion stiff and uncooperative, as though her body no longer fully belonged to her.
Her skin was pale, drained of color, her lips dry and cracked.
A deep cold lingered inside her, not from the air around her, but from somewhere far deeper.
It feels like something is missing. No… like something was taken.
She looked thinner, weaker, as if whatever had been done to her had gone on far longer than she could remember.
For a moment, she simply stared at her hands, holding them in front of her as though they belonged to someone else.
They did not feel like hers.
If I cut them off, would I even notice?
The sensation was distant and dulled, as if her awareness reached them through layers of something thick and unyielding.
As she watched, the skin sagged and darkened in uneven patches.
Veins surfaced and blackened beneath the surface, spreading in thin, branching lines, while the flesh itself softened, loosening as though it were beginning to rot in real time.
The decay crept along her fingers toward her wrists, the texture turning uneven and wrong, as if her body had forgotten how to hold its shape.
There it is. It's starting again.
She did not react.
Her fingers twitched once, slow and slightly delayed.
She turned her hand a fraction, studying the way the rot followed the motion, stretching and clinging as though it truly belonged to her.
What if this is the real one… and the other was the illusion?
A low wuuum pressed faintly against her ears, distorting the edges of her perception.
"Illusion," she said quietly, the word calm and certain, as if naming something familiar.
Say it enough times and maybe it will stay true.
Nothing changed.
Her expression remained blank as she tilted her head, examining her hand from another angle, as though expecting the distortion to falter under scrutiny.
When it did not, she hummed softly under her breath and lifted her hand closer to her face, inhaling lightly as if to test it.
Her nose wrinkled faintly.
"There's nothing," she murmured.
No smell. No rot. So which one is lying… my eyes or my mind?
Her tongue brushed absently against her lower lip before she lowered her hand again.
Then her gaze lifted as the room began to change.
The walls peeled and split, paint curling away in long, brittle strips that hung like shedding skin.
Dark stains spread outward in irregular patterns, creeping across every surface with slow persistence.
The ceiling sagged, shadows deepening in the corners as though something unseen pressed down from above.
The air felt heavier, thick with the suggestion of decay she could not quite confirm.
Everything was rotting, and it was disturbing to the eye.
It's spreading. Or I'm sinking into it.
Her eyes moved across the room with eerie calm, tracking each shift as though studying a pattern rather than witnessing something impossible.
She focused on a crack forming along the wall and blinked once, slow and deliberate.
When it remained, she gave a faint nod.
"It's consistent," she said under her breath.
Consistent hallucinations are the worst kind. They pretend to be real.
Something inside her slipped.
A quiet laugh escaped her, uneven and hollow, fraying at the edges.
If I can predict it… does that mean I'm losing control?
It did not sound like fear. It sounded like recognition.
"This isn't real," she said, though the words carried little conviction, spoken more from habit than belief.
If it isn't real… why does it feel like something is watching me through it?
Her breath caught briefly.
The room warped again, pulling in and out as the low wuuum pressed deeper into her skull.
"No more," she murmured, the words worn thin.
Make it stop. Or don't. I don't think it matters anymore.
Tears slid down her face without her noticing, but she did not wipe them away.
Something brushed lightly against her arm, and she looked down.
Insects crawled across her skin, their tiny legs moving in slow, deliberate patterns over the decayed illusion of her flesh.
She watched them with quiet focus, then tilted her arm slightly, adjusting the angle as though to observe them better.
They're careful. Like they know where I'm weakest.
"You're early," she said softly, followed by another faint laugh.
One insect stilled near her wrist.
Its wings did not move.
It was a dead butterfly.
Move. Just once.
She lifted her other hand and tapped it lightly once, then again, as though expecting a response.
When none came, she traced the edge of one brittle wing with her fingertip, feeling it bend.
"There you are," she murmured, a small, misplaced smile touching her lips. "You don't move anymore."
She pressed her hand lightly over it, flattening it against her skin as if to keep it in place, and held it there for a moment before letting her hand fall away without concern.
There was no revulsion, no hesitation, only familiarity.
This had happened before.
Not like this, not exactly, but the feeling of it.
The distortion.
The quiet betrayal of her own senses.
Her mind had done this to her too many times, reshaping the world without warning until nothing held steady.
She had learned not to trust what she saw.
She had also learned that resisting it changed nothing.
Fighting it only makes it worse.
So she endured.
Her head tilted slightly, the motion slow and deliberate.
Her fingers curled inward, then stretched again, testing the response.
"They still work," she said softly.
Break something. Feel something real.
Her voice was steady, almost sane.
Her jaw tightened, and her nails pressed into her palm, grounding herself in the sharp, immediate sensation.
For a brief moment, something sharper flickered beneath the calm.
"No," she said, controlled.
Stay in control.
The feeling passed, and everything stilled again.
Her hand loosened, and her posture straightened slightly, too precise, as though she were forcing herself back into place.
"No," she repeated, quieter.
If I lose control… there's nothing left.
Her gaze drifted across the decaying room, her expression empty, her movements unnervingly calm, as if none of it disturbed her, as if this had long since become normal.
The moment passed, but something in her mind did not settle the way it had before.
It's getting worse.
She forced herself upright, her arms trembling under the effort.
Pain pulsed through her head in a steady throb, and she winced, pressing a hand to her temple as though she could steady the fracture in her thoughts.
They would not hold, each thought slipping apart before it could fully form.
Hold together. Just a little longer.
She needed to focus.
Without thinking, she brought her thumb to her mouth and bit down hard.
Crk.
Pain shot through her finger, sharp and immediate, cutting through the haze.
The metallic taste of blood spread across her tongue, grounding her in something real.
Her breathing steadied, her chest rising and falling in a more controlled rhythm.
Pain is real. Pain doesn't lie.
For a brief moment, her thoughts began to gather, forming something clearer.
It did not last.