She sees herself slipping sideways, crawling out of frame—a fractured shadow laughing bitterly at the void. Split into two, three, a dozen hungry ghosts armed to the teeth, blades humming, flashing like neon sickness under a rotting sun. A chemical tang on the tongue—morphine dreams, sharp as razors, as bitter as the lies she whispers to herself, again and again and again. Agreement? No chance. Agreement's a dead language.

The streets are jagged veins, carved by desperate hours and desperate hands. The past crashes through like a ****** in withdrawal, clawing at her skin, digging for some fragile vein of meaning. The chosen ones scatter like cigarette ash into the unbreathable air. Truth burns. Doubt screams. Nobody wins this game.

She’s disgraced, sure, but truth is her leash. She’s got the numbers—counts the dead, calculates the weight of significance in a world slipping off its axis. Oracle burned to ash by her own prophecy, she's got secrets to sell. Whispers futures into the ears of corpses. Hands groping through the static for some code, some cipher. Eyes wide, empty. Blind.

The labyrinth pulls her deeper, silken threads unraveling into something monstrous, writhing roots, tangles of anxiety choking the air. Confess! she commands, spitting venom. Purity’s a joke told by the ******, a punchline you find only when the blade's in your hand. But she’s reaching anyway, clawing at enlightenment like it owes her something, like despair’s got an answer hiding in the filth. Flowers bloom red in the cracks, ecstasy spilling like blood, too much, too fast, choking.

Blood pools where the flow stops. Stagnant. She swallows herself, folds into nothing. The mirror devours her whole, spitting back echoes, endless recursion, hysteria blooming in the cracks. Scream trapped, caught, reflected infinitely. A Möbius strip of despair, looping forever, cutting deep, deeper still.

No exit. Just mirrors. Just screams.