A storm of faceless hands stretching from the void, their fingers elongated like molten wax—reaching, molding, twisting a half-formed figure of light. The more the hands correct, the more the light warps—dimming, fracturing, splitting into colors it never chose. Beneath them, a reflection in shattered glass, each shard whispering in unison, yet none sounding like the original voice. The hands tighten. The light flickers. The reflection holds its breath.