Xania’s reflection blurred as her hands trembled, gripping a pair of scissors with pale knuckles. Each braid she severed fell into the small trash can at her feet, joining a growing pile of tangled memories. With every cut, she released pieces of herself that she wasn’t even sure belonged to her. It felt like an act of defiance, but against what, she didn’t know. The notion that she could somehow scrape herself clean by removing each lock was laughable, yet it kept her steady. Cut the hair, look at the braid, drop it in the trash—cut, look, drop. Each motion held her in place, a barely contained slip from a darker oblivion she could almost feel breathing down her neck.

The scissors trembled as she brought them up to the next braid, her fingers cold and numb, her mind teetering somewhere between exhaustion and hysteria. But she couldn't stop. If she stopped, she might never move again.

She barely noticed when Derrex entered, his gaze catching on her as he took in the scene. His presence was solid, grounding, even if she’d never admit it to him—or herself. “Xania,” he said softly, his voice slicing through her trance as smoothly as the scissors in her hand cut through her hair.

Her head jerked up, her jaw clenching at the sight of him watching her. “What?” she demanded, the word landing like a blade between them.

He hesitated, eyes flicking to the fallen hair at her feet and back to her face. "I was going to say we’re ready to leave soon, but... I see you’re busy." He held her gaze just long enough for her to feel it, and a warmth settled in his expression that she couldn’t bear to see right now.

“I am busy,” she said, the words forced and clipped. She didn’t need him looking at her like that, like he saw right through this act, through the anger and the broken pieces she’d laid out in that trash can. She didn’t want to be seen. That was the whole point, wasn’t it?

“Okay.” He gave a quiet nod, letting his gaze linger for a beat longer. “I’ll give you more time.” His voice was gentle, without judgment, but she still felt it as a weight. She wanted to snap back, but he was already gone, leaving her alone with the silence and the scissors. 

She turned back to the mirror, finding herself staring into her own exhausted, tear-streaked eyes. This time, though, his presence lingered in her mind, no matter how hard she tried to shove it aside. Derrex had looked at her like he expected something, and she resented him for that, for daring to think she could be anything but a broken, faded sketch of a person.

She lifted the scissors again, her fingers brushing against her cheek as she traced a cold line along her skin with the tip of the metal. What would it feel like to just cut away everything—to erase her face, her body, her existence, in one brutal snip? It was an absurd thought, she knew that, but there was a sick appeal to it, one she couldn’t entirely ignore. In this body, she felt like an impostor, cobbled together by a past she couldn’t fully remember, a construct held together by other people's expectations.

Xania tightened her grip on the scissors, her breathing shallow as her fingers traced the cold edge along her cheek, just below her eye. The thought crept in, unbidden but compelling: if she cut away her face, what would remain? Would there be a truer self beneath the skin? Could she shed this body, this mask of a person she felt so disconnected from, and reveal something more authentic underneath?

She pressed the metal against her skin, feeling the faint bite of its edge, imagining it slicing through the flesh of her cheek, peeling it back layer by layer. The vision grew sharper in her mind—a face devoid of a mask, stripped bare to reveal raw, glistening muscle and pulsing veins, her own blood painting her exposed features. She pictured it vividly, almost viscerally—the red sheen of sinew catching the dim light, her mouth little more than a line of exposed teeth stretched against an open jaw.

In her mind, she stared at herself in the mirror, at this skinless version of herself, an open wound made flesh. It was grotesque, horrifying, but there was something else, too: a sense of power. She could see herself as a creature of unfiltered emotion, unshielded by the softness of skin and the falseness it implied. In her mind, this exposed version of herself stood tall, unafraid, because there was nothing left to hide behind. All of her secrets, her weaknesses, her hurts—they would be visible for anyone to see, written plainly in each blood vessel and tendon. She would be impossible to misunderstand, impossible to mistake as anything other than what she was: raw, bleeding, and undeniably real.

The vision pulled her in, filling her with a perverse sense of clarity. It was as if, stripped of her mask, she would finally see herself clearly, see what lay beneath the surface of her own fractured identity. She imagined her reflection in the mirror blinking back at her with wide, bare eyes, glistening in their sockets, no longer hidden behind flesh and false expression. And for a brief, agonizing moment, it almost felt like freedom.

But the scissors remained still in her hand, their blade resting just a whisper away from her eye. She couldn’t move, frozen between the imagined liberation of tearing herself apart and the horror of what that might mean. The weight of reality settled over her like a heavy blanket, snuffing out the fantasy’s allure. The mirror reflected her as she was, whole but broken, skin still intact, even as she longed to tear it all away.

In the doorway, Derrex returned, his eyes darkening as he watched her run the blade along her cheek. Making eye contact with him in the mirror, a shudder ran through her, breaking the spell. He didn’t speak, but his expression alone spoke volumes, a mixture of concern and something deeper that she couldn’t—or didn’t want to—acknowledge.

“Xania.” His voice was low, almost pleading. He took a step forward, his hand outstretched as if reaching to stop her, but he halted himself.

With a sigh, she lowered the scissors and held them out to him. “Here,” she said, the word brittle in her mouth. “Finish it.”

For a moment, he looked as if he might refuse, his eyes searching her face for a sign, a hint of what she truly wanted. But then he took the scissors and gestured for her to sit. Once she sat on the closed lid of the toilet, he positioned himself beside her. His movements were gentle as he lifted a braid and began cutting, each slice precise and measured. She stared at the pieces falling, as if they might spell out a new meaning for her life if she could read them right.

Xania’s gaze fell to the floor as fragments of her hair drifted down, landing with soft, final taps like the first whispers of rain. Each severed braid seemed to carry with it the weight of the past, heavy with memories she didn’t fully understand. She watched, transfixed, as the lengths piled up in the trash can beside her, like pieces of a life she no longer recognized. The woven strands, now broken and frayed, stirred something deep within her—faint, ghostly glimpses of faces, images of her sisters, long-lost but no longer forgotten.

In the gleam of the fallen hair, she saw the glint of eyes that looked too much like her own, and a cascade of laughter she remembered only in echoes, softened by time and loss. Her sisters’ faces emerged from the darkness, blurred yet painfully vivid, like portraits fading in and out of focus. Each one had a place, a role, a piece of the world they were supposed to fill—and yet, they were gone, all of them. She could feel the silence they left behind like a scar, a gap where life and love had once promised to bloomed, leaving her as the sole remnant.

Why her? Why was she here, still breathing, when they were only memories now, barely more than ghosts trapped in the locks of hair tumbling to the floor? She’d never felt exceptional. Her sisters had been bright, radiant beings, each unique and unbreakable—or so she’d believed. They’d had dreams, passions, lives they were meant to live. And yet, it was she who sat here, piecing herself together out of fragments, while they lingered only as half-remembered shadows.

Her hands clenched in her lap, fingers digging into her palms as the questions tore through her, hollow and relentless. What had set her apart? What was so different about her that she was left behind, a survivor among ruins, wearing the same face but feeling as though she were nothing more than an empty shell? Each fallen braid felt like a thread from a tapestry that was never meant to be unraveled, yet here she was, taking it apart piece by piece, as if she might find an answer hidden somewhere in the strands.

She glanced up at Derrex, feeling a prickling awareness of his every motion, the silent care in each snip of the scissors. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, but it only deepened the ache within her. Was she really worthy of this care, of his quiet devotion? Did he not see that she was an impostor, the last, misplaced survivor in a story that should have ended long ago?

As more hair fell, she felt herself unraveling with it, the illusion of who she’d been slowly giving way to the uncertainty of who she was meant to be. If her sisters were gone, did that mean her life had a greater purpose she hadn’t yet grasped—or was she simply the one who had slipped through fate’s fingers, without meaning or reason?

The urge to ask him, to reach out and demand answers from someone who couldn’t possibly know, rose up within her like a tide, but she swallowed it down, watching in silence as the remnants of her former self lay discarded at her feet.

They sat in silence, the rhythmic snip of the scissors filling the space between them. She could feel his gaze on her every so often, but he never lingered long enough for her to feel uncomfortable. 

“You can talk to me,” he murmured, his voice low, as if afraid of breaking her fragile calm. “If you want to.”

Her throat tightened at the offer, but she didn’t look at him. “Talk? About what, exactly?” she replied, her voice sharper than intended.

Snip. Another braid fell. “Anything.” His words were soft, without any trace of pressure. “Whatever you feel you need to say.”

She scoffed, the sound bitter and hollow. “And what if there’s nothing left to say? What if... there’s nothing left of me at all?”

Derrex paused, his fingers resting lightly on the last braid as he processed her words. He didn’t respond right away, just kept working, letting the silence stretch until it felt less like a void and more like a cushion.

“Xania, I don’t need you to say anything for my sake,” he said at last, and she felt the sincerity in his voice. “But I do wish... I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.”

She shook her head, that bitter laugh bubbling up again. “And how do you see me, Derrex? As some lost cause, some broken project you feel obligated to fix? Some shadow that keeps fading out of existence every time you turn away?”

He met her gaze in the mirror, and for a second, she saw a flicker of pain in his eyes, but it was quickly replaced with something softer, more certain. “No. I see you as... someone who matters,” he said, his voice catching just slightly. “To me. To others. You’re not a shadow, Xania. You’re real, and you’re here, even if you can’t feel it right now.”

She wanted to push him away, to tell him he was wrong. But his words lingered, sinking deeper than she wanted to admit. Did he mean it? Could it be true, even if she couldn’t feel it? Or was it just another illusion, a well-meaning lie to make her stay put?

He finished with the scissors and set them down, his fingers brushing gently over the tufts of her hair that remained. When he picked up the clippers, she only nodded, watching in the mirror as he smoothed each section down to stubble. With each pass, she felt a strange sensation, as if she was stripping away something that had bound her, but she still wasn’t sure what that might be.

“Do you want me to shave it completely?” he asked, and she nodded again, her throat too tight to speak.

As he worked the lather and the razor over her scalp, she watched his hands, the steadiness of his movements. She found herself envying that steadiness, that quiet certainty that seemed to ground him no matter the chaos around them. She wanted to ask him how he did it, how he kept going even when everything felt pointless, but the words caught in her throat.

When he finished, he wiped her head clean with a towel and set everything aside, the intimacy of the moment settling over them like a fragile weight. She lifted a hand to her bare scalp, feeling the smoothness, the rawness of her new skin. There was something painfully honest about it, something that felt almost... freeing, even if it changed nothing.

“You look...” Derrex hesitated, then smiled, his gaze meeting hers in the mirror. “You look powerful, Xania. You always have.”

She clenched her hands around the edge of the counter, trying to hold back the emotions that surged up, threatening to spill over. She didn’t want to need his approval, didn’t want to lean on his words for a sense of worth, but she couldn’t deny the way they settled into the cracks in her heart, softening her anger just a little.

“Why?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Why do you care so much?”

His expression shifted, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face before he could mask it. “Because I know what it’s like to feel lost,” he said, his voice low and steady. “And because... you’re important to me, Xania. More than I can put into words.”

She felt the weight of his words, the depth of his care, and it terrified her. She didn’t want to matter to him, didn’t want to risk letting someone else in only to be shattered again. But his presence was steady, unwavering, like an anchor in a storm she couldn’t escape.

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” she said, barely more than a whisper, but he heard her.

He reached out, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder, not demanding anything, just offering warmth, solidity. “Then let’s find out together,” he said, his voice a quiet promise.

Her gaze dropped, but she felt the beginnings of a connection, something she could barely acknowledge. It wasn’t enough to pull her out of the darkness entirely, but it was a spark, a small glimmer that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as alone as she’d thought.

They stood in silence, the echoes of their unspoken fears and hopes filling the space between them. She didn’t know if she could trust this, if she could trust him, but for now, she was willing to try.

Life Drive engaged. She felt warmth spread through her mind and connection being made inside her mind.

"I am here," he thought, sending the words through the connection. The magic flared, a surge of warmth and light, filling the spaces between their spirits. "You are not alone. Come to Enaid."

She rubbed her hands over the smooth skin on her head and looked at herself in the mirror. Who ever she had been was lost and no longer mattered. This was who she was now. 

"We have to go to Enaid," she said.