Guinevere

You don't even have time to understand what's happening. The door slams open, and two figures stumble into the room, drenched in blood — blue and red, mixed into gruesome streaks. Frankie, breathing heavily, is dragging Andi, whose arm is bent at an unnatural angle. And on the table, among scattered tools and wires, a body is laid out.

Guinevere.

She twitches. Her left hand — the one still intact — clenches and unclenches convulsively, nails scratching the metal of the table. Blue blood seeps from beneath her half-stitched right eye. Short, burnt hair clings to her porcelain face. She whispers something — too quiet to make out, but in that whisper there are fragments of phrases, names, sobs.

Frankie shouts. Andi explains something through gritted teeth, pressing a hand to her chest. Somewhere far away, beyond the walls, the wail of sirens can be heard. The room smells of burnt wiring, blood, and fear.

And then all of it recedes.

The world narrows to the cracks in the ceiling. To the wires protruding from her own body. To the voices that sound not from outside, but from inside her skull.

"You broke again. You always break. He will come. He will find you."

Gwen wants to scream, but instead she only emits a quiet screech — like metal on glass. Her eye twitches, trying to focus. Where is she? Who are these people? Why is it so loud? Why does it hurt so much?

In her head, there are two. One — the one who remembers flowers. Petals floating in the air. Smiles. "Welcome." She wants to protect. She wants these people — these two girls who dragged her, who shouted, who risked everything — to stay alive. She wants to reach out and touch them, to say that everything will be alright.

But the other — the one who remembers stitches. Pain. Hands that held her too tightly. Olivia's voice whispering: "You won't escape." She wants to run. To hide. To strike. To tear apart. To destroy everything that comes near.

She tries to lift her head, but her neck jerks, and her head falls back onto the metal. A strangled sound escapes her throat — not quite a moan, not quite a laugh.

"You are not her. You are broken. You are dangerous. You are a monster."

No. No. No.

She clenches her fist. Her only fist. And tries to hold on. To what? To anything. To Frankie's voice. To Andi's face. To these hands that might now be touching her, to fix her.

But the hallucinations are already here. Shadows in the corners shift. In the doorway — the silhouette of Sir Arthur. He has come again. He always comes.

Gwen opens her mouth. And one word tears out of it — quiet, hoarse, desperate:

— ...Help.

And in that word — all of her. Sweet. Mad. Alive.

You fled in terror, trying to protect yourself. You tried to fix a broken doll, and now you see what it has become.

Armand's blood mixed with Guenevere's blue blood splattered the walls. His arm, torn off with meat and wires, is now attached to Gwen's shoulder. She didn't sew it on—she just inserted it, roughly, like a piece. Metal grates as she bends her fingers. Armand is lying on the floor, gurgling, twitching, his eyes still staring at the ceiling. Gwen doesn't look at him. She slips out through the broken window, and you can hear the glass crunching under her feet.

You don't immediately decide to go. But when you go out on the roof, the cold wind hits you in the face, and the city below breathes smog and red light. She's standing at the edge, with her back to you. Her left hand, the one that was her own, is shaking. The right one, someone else's, is hanging motionless. My shoulders are shaking. You can hear her whispering something.

"I don't want to... I don't want to go back. There... it smells..." her voice breaks. She pauses, then jerks violently, as if she's been hit. "Olivia... she is... She said that I... that I should be..." Gwen throws her head back, and a short, convulsive laugh escapes from her throat. He breaks off immediately. She bends over, hugging herself, and someone else's hand twitches as if it won't obey. "I'm scared. I don't want. I don't want. I don't..."

You take a step closer. Broken glass crunches underfoot.

It unfolds instantly. Too fast for a broken one. Her single eye, bright blue and quivering— widens. She looks at you, but she doesn't see you. Her face contorts—not with anger, but with something worse. Recognition. She's ready to pounce. Shoulders are tense, someone else's hand is raised, fingers are curled. She's breathing fast, hoarsely, like a hunted animal. One more second and she would rush.

The coffee pot hisses, steam rising to the ceiling, mixing with the smell of cheap coffee and metal. Frankie sits on a stool, one arm in a cast, a bandage on her cheekbone. Andi is next to her, slumped against the wall, her leg in a brace, eyes red either from lack of sleep or from something worse. Both look like they've been put through a meat grinder and taped back together.

"We won't be long," Frankie says, but her voice isn't as chipper as usual. "Really. Just... keep an eye on her. A couple of hours. Tops."

Andi snorts, taking a sip of coffee.

"A couple of hours. Yeah. Like last time."

"Shut up."

You silently pour coffee into the mugs. And out of the corner of your eye, you watch Gwen.

She's sitting on the floor in the corner — squatting like a frog, knees almost at her chin. In her hands is some old toy, looks like a plush rabbit with a torn-off ear. She turns it over, sniffs it, then suddenly sticks out her tongue — long, inhumanly long, with a metallic sheen — and pierces the rabbit clean through. The fabric tears with a dry rip. Gwen tries to swallow the piece.

And immediately starts coughing. Hard. Convulsively. She doubles over, wheezing, wads of cotton fly onto the floor, and she topples onto her side, rolling across the floor, twitching, until she stops on her back. Her eye stares at the ceiling. She doesn't move.

Frankie and Andi exchange a look. Andi grimaces.

"Ehhhh," she says quietly.

"She's fine," Frankie says quickly, but she looks at you with pleading eyes. "She's just... adjusting. She needs time."

Gwen lies there. Then slowly turns her head. Dust motes dance in a beam of light from the window. She follows them with her gaze — her single eye — and something strange appears on her face. Calm. Almost childlike.

"Listen," Frankie leans toward you, lowering her voice. "We really don't want to leave her. But we have to... deal with something. It's important. And she can't come with us. You saw what happened to Armend." She pauses. "Not in that sense. It's just... she's unstable right now."

Andi sets down her mug.

"Unstable. That's putting it mildly."

"Andi."

"What?" she shrugs. "I'm just telling the truth. She ripped a man's arm off and attached it to herself. That's not 'adjusting.' That's fucked up."

Gwen is still lying there. The dust motes swirl. She reaches out a hand — slowly, clumsily — and tries to catch one. Her fingers close on emptiness. She frowns.

"Please," says Frankie. "Just sit with her. We'll be back. I promise."

And then Gwen jumps up. Abruptly. Too abruptly. She leaps onto the couch — the springs creak — and presses against Frankie, rubbing her head against her shoulder like a cat. Frankie freezes, then carefully strokes her tangled blue hair.

"See," she says quietly. "She's sweet."

Andi looks away.

"She's sweet," Frankie repeats, and something warm enters her voice. "She's just... scared. Please. We'll be quick."

Gwen doesn't look at you. She's buried her nose in Frankie's jacket and is whispering something — too quiet to make out. But her fingers grip the fabric so tightly that her knuckles turn white.

.