‎Zeal had a strange dream—a nightmare that clung to him like a shadow. ‎In a torch-lit chamber steeped in darkness, he saw a woman in a long, flowing gown, her silhouette flickering like smoke. She lay on a cold stone floor, her body writhing in agony. A searing pain twisted through her as strange, ink-black roses began to bloom across her chest—spreading like living tattoos, crawling over her skin, devouring her inch by inch. ‎She cried out—desperate, broken—but her voice faded into silence. ‎The dream felt too vivid, too familiar, as though he weren’t just watching… but remembering. ‎Zeal jolts awake, breathless, the sound of her cry still echoing in his ears. His heart pounds in his chest as he reaches instinctively for it—trying to ground himself, to shake the chill creeping through his bones. ‎He tells himself it’s just a dream. ‎He tries to believe it. ‎But the nightmare returns, night after night, unchanged in its horror. ‎