"Act Four, Home."
As the voice of Leviathan resonated, Margaret felt a slow, dreamlike sensation wash over her.
It seemed as though she had spent years accompanying Charlotte, unable to distinguish between reality and illusion. The devil had become some false fancy, albeit one that had materialized.
"A cozy memory, wouldn't you agree?"
The devil sneered, its tone insincere and exaggerated. "Little Charlotte had a good mother. Tell me, what do you think of this mother?"
It seemed to forget that Margaret couldn't speak.
"Shame I didn't get to meet her. Her soul must be quite delicious..."
The hoarse, monstrous voice faded away.
The scene before Margaret shifted once more. Charlotte, soaked and bullied, struggled to climb out of the river, trudging home with heavy steps.
Thin fabric clung to her body, outlining ample breasts and a slender waist. From afar, giggling girls looked on, their faces contorted with disdain.
