As Camilla's thoughts delved into the labyrinthine landscape of her emotions, an eerie stillness settled within the tent. The shadows seemed to lengthen, casting a veil of obscurity over the corners of her mind. She was in the midst of grappling with her doubts in a tumultuous whirlwind of uncertainty when an unexpected voice sliced through the air.
"You are such a poor girl," the voice echoed, reverberating with an otherworldly resonance that sent shivers down Camilla's spine.
It was a voice coming from inside her—the voice of Anesthesia. The wicked spirit's words seemed to slither around the tent like malevolent tendrils, stirring the stagnant air with their presence. Camilla's grip on the fabric beneath her tightened, her knuckles turning white as her heart raced.
