He found her baptized in her own blood.

Semi-unconscious, sharp glass sparkling like stars in her dark hair and trails of bloody tears on her cheek.

His calls went unanswered as the explosive panic drew everyone else still alive out of the danger.

Smoke and fire snapping like whips, hands snatching burning the air.

Chaos breathed into silence in a white corridor with whiter clothed people walking softly and quiet.

Ghosts reflected, unseeing.

Unfeeling, detached.

She lay on the uncomfortable bed.

Still and breathing.

Peaceful and destroyed while his money ran all the machinery.

Perpetual was the ticking of the clock in the white corridor.

She will awake, eventually. The ghosts said with pity they didn’t feel.

Oh, she will awake, tin soldier.

The cracked mirror harshly mocked You both shall find out your reflection has changed for the world has turned on itself.

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