In the heart of a dimly lit, gothic room, where the rusty appliances stand as relics of a forgotten time, Nyx, the witch, sits slouched on a creaking chair. Dust blankets every surface, and cobwebs cling to the ceiling corners, untouched for months. The air feels thick, as if the room itself hasn't breathed in ages. Nyx's disheveled appearance tells a story of sleepless nights, the dark, heavy bags beneath her eyes resembling smudged eyeliner—more from fatigue than any attempt at beauty.
Opposite her sits Amelin, her usually composed face flushed a bright, almost feverish red. Her body twitches uncontrollably, as if something invisible is crawling beneath her skin. Her breaths come quick and shallow, and her hands are pressed awkwardly against her crotch. And her eyes, wide and desperate, plead with Nyx in silent urgency.
"Oof," Nyx exhales, her voice a tired whisper, "so, this is why you're here?"
