[indent]The airplane cabin hummed with the quiet, steady rhythm of engines, its luxurious calm a distinct contrast to the turmoil within Anissa Quinn's mind. The scent of freshly ground coffee wafted gently down the aisle, mingling with hints of rose from the hand towels passed around earlier. Plush ivory seats lined the first-class compartment, each designed to cocoon its occupant in comfort, creating a private sanctuary thousands of feet above the Atlantic Ocean.

Outside, through the curved plane window, the horizon blurred softly between twilight and dawn, streaks of lilac blending with indigo. The surreal beauty of it momentarily drew her gaze away from the letter that had consumed her thoughts since boarding. Yet, even as she admired the colours, Anissa's fingers compulsively traced the folded edges of the heavy parchment nestled inside her coat pocket.

She had read it countless times, each word burned into her memory, each phrase resonating deeper each time she revisited them. What would it hurt for a third time…or a fourth…or…:
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[quote][color=#6E5F7C][center]𝕸𝖞 𝖉𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖙 𝕬𝖓𝖎,

𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖒𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝖍𝖆𝖛𝖊 𝖜𝖔𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖉 𝖜𝖍𝖞 𝖘𝖍𝖆𝖉𝖔𝖜𝖘 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖈𝖍 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝖞𝖔𝖚, 𝖜𝖍𝖞 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖆𝖎𝖗 𝖈𝖆𝖗𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖛𝖔𝖎𝖈𝖊𝖘 𝖓𝖔 𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖊𝖑𝖘𝖊 𝖘𝖊𝖊𝖒𝖘 𝖙𝖔 𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖗….

𝖂𝖍𝖊𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖉𝖊𝖆𝖉 𝖋𝖎𝖗𝖘𝖙 𝖘𝖕𝖔𝖐𝖊, 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖍𝖎𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖎𝖗 𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖐𝖘 𝖇𝖊𝖓𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍 𝖘𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖈𝖍𝖊𝖉 𝖘𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖓 𝖌𝖑𝖔𝖛𝖊𝖘, 𝖓𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗 𝖔𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖑𝖊𝖙𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖒𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖘𝖊𝖊 𝖍𝖔𝖜 𝖉𝖊𝖊𝖕 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖎𝖗 𝖌𝖗𝖎𝖕 𝖙𝖗𝖚𝖑𝖞 𝖗𝖆𝖓. 𝖄𝖔𝖚'𝖛𝖊 𝖆𝖑𝖜𝖆𝖞𝖘 𝖜𝖆𝖑𝖐𝖊𝖉 𝖔𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖓𝖆𝖗𝖗𝖔𝖜 𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖊 𝖇𝖊𝖙𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖑𝖎𝖛𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖉𝖊𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖊𝖉, 𝖓𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗 𝖋𝖚𝖑𝖑𝖞 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖊𝖎𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖑𝖒. 

𝕯𝖔 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖗𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖒𝖆𝖌𝖓𝖔𝖑𝖎𝖆 𝖙𝖗𝖊𝖊 𝖇𝖞 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖔𝖑𝖉 𝖈𝖍𝖚𝖗𝖈𝖍 𝖔𝖓 𝕸𝖆𝖎𝖓 𝕾𝖙𝖗𝖊𝖊𝖙? 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖜𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖊 𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖘𝖘𝖔𝖒𝖘 𝖆𝖑𝖜𝖆𝖞𝖘 𝖋𝖊𝖑𝖑 𝖙𝖔𝖔 𝖘𝖔𝖔𝖓, 𝖑𝖊𝖆𝖛𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖕𝖊𝖙𝖆𝖑𝖘 𝖑𝖎𝖐𝖊 𝖙𝖊𝖆𝖗-𝖘𝖙𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖐𝖊𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖓𝖋𝖊𝖙𝖙𝖎 𝖔𝖓 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖕𝖆𝖙𝖍. 𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖋𝖊𝖑𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖔𝖗𝖗𝖔𝖜 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖇𝖊𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖞𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖊𝖑𝖘𝖊. 𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖓𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗 𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖉 𝖎𝖙, 𝖇𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖊𝖛𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖘𝖎𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖉 𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖉 𝖔𝖋𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖛𝖎𝖙𝖆𝖇𝖑𝖊.

𝕬𝖓𝖉 𝖞𝖊𝖙, 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖛𝖎𝖙𝖆𝖇𝖑𝖊 𝖈𝖆𝖒𝖊. 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖜𝖔𝖒𝖆𝖓 𝖉𝖗𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖍𝖊𝖉 𝖎𝖓 𝖘𝖊𝖆𝖜𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖗, 𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖎𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖘𝖔𝖗𝖗𝖔𝖜 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖍𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖘. 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖗𝖆𝖎𝖓-𝖘𝖔𝖆𝖐𝖊𝖉 𝖕𝖚𝖉𝖉𝖑𝖊𝖘' 𝖜𝖍𝖎𝖘𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖘 𝖌𝖚𝖎𝖉𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖙𝖔 𝖘𝖊𝖈𝖗𝖊𝖙𝖘 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖉𝖎𝖉𝖓'𝖙 𝖜𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝖙𝖔 𝖚𝖓𝖈𝖔𝖛𝖊𝖗. 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖊𝖇𝖔𝖔𝖐 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖐𝖊𝖊𝖕 𝖇𝖊𝖓𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖕𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖔𝖜, 𝖎𝖙𝖘 𝖕𝖆𝖌𝖊𝖘 𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖉 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖎𝖓𝖐 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖘, 𝖙𝖗𝖞𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖙𝖔 𝖉𝖊𝖈𝖔𝖉𝖊 𝖛𝖎𝖘𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖘 𝖓𝖔 𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖊𝖑𝖘𝖊 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖉 𝖕𝖔𝖘𝖘𝖎𝖇𝖑𝖞 𝖋𝖆𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖒.

𝕴 𝖉𝖎𝖉 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖆𝖇𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖔𝖓 𝖞𝖔𝖚, 𝕬𝖓𝖎𝖘𝖘𝖆.  𝕴'𝖛𝖊 𝖒𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖑𝖞 𝖕𝖗𝖔𝖙𝖊𝖈𝖙𝖊𝖉 𝖞𝖔𝖚, 𝖍𝖊𝖑𝖉 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖆𝖙 𝖆𝖗𝖒’𝖘 𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖌𝖙𝖍 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖉𝖆𝖗𝖐𝖓𝖊𝖘𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙'𝖘 𝖈𝖗𝖆𝖛𝖊𝖉 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖘𝖎𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖉𝖆𝖞 𝖔𝖋 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖇𝖎𝖗𝖙𝖍. 𝕭𝖚𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖛𝖊𝖎𝖑 𝖎𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌. 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖊 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖜𝖆𝖑𝖐 𝖌𝖗𝖔𝖜𝖘 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖊 𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖑𝖔𝖚𝖘 𝖊𝖆𝖈𝖍 𝖉𝖆𝖞. 𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖇𝖊𝖑𝖔𝖓𝖌 𝖆𝖒𝖔𝖓𝖌 𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖊 𝖜𝖍𝖔 𝖚𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖜𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖎𝖙 𝖒𝖊𝖆𝖓𝖘 𝖙𝖔 𝖙𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉 𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖍𝖆𝖉𝖔𝖜𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖌𝖔𝖉𝖘.

𝕮𝖔𝖒𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝕮𝖆𝖒𝖕 𝕬𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖓𝖘. 𝕱𝖎𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖘𝖜𝖊𝖗𝖘 𝖞𝖔𝖚'𝖛𝖊 𝖆𝖑𝖜𝖆𝖞𝖘 𝖘𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍𝖙, 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖙𝖗𝖚𝖙𝖍 𝖔𝖋 𝖜𝖍𝖔 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖜𝖍𝖔 𝕴 𝖆𝖒 𝖙𝖔 𝖞𝖔𝖚.

~~𝕱𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖇𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖉 𝖍𝖆𝖉 𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖘𝖆𝖐𝖊𝖓 𝖞𝖔𝖚 
🥀 [/center][/color][/quote]


For days, she’d ricocheted between rationalizations. Perhaps, she’d caught a stalker’s fascination, though if that were the case, they would have to be both omnipotent and omnipresent to hold the knowledge expressed. Another idea she’d briefly considered was that it was a powerful delusion conjured by sleep-deprived neurons. But certainty had crystallized in the pit of her stomach when even that could not explain how real it had felt in her hands, how she would have to be [i]mad[/i] to have written the words to herself somehow.  Her mother, of course, remained oblivious of the whole thing, and Anissa intended to keep it that way. Let her believe the boutique’s resurgence and Anissa’s sudden “college tour” to Greece were unrelated. Better to preserve the fragile peace they’d carved out than watch her mother’s resurrected smile fracture under fresh dread.

Especially when whoever it was sent by hadn’t even bothered to leave their name, despite surreptitiously claiming to be her long-lost father, finally returned from a terribly long milk run. 

Growing up under her mother’s careful, attentive gaze had been both sheltering and isolating. The boutique, filled with decadent fabrics and ornate accessories, had always been their haven, its comforting familiarity so different from the whispers and stares Anissa endured elsewhere. She admired her mother fiercely; the woman who never complained, who wove resilience and elegance into every facet of her life, who’d sometimes managed to camouflage her daughter’s strangeness beneath couture.  Yet no amount of love or skill could bridge the widening gulf between the normal life her mother envisioned for her and the unsettling truths Anissa had often had to face alone. 

Like the night she’d been fourteen, pacing the boutique’s backroom after closing, studying her reflection in the full-length mirror as her mother adjusted an emerald velvet dress around her shoulders. Her mother's gentle chatter faded suddenly into a muted hum, overtaken by a different voice whispering frantically into Anissa's ear. [i] “She took my pearls, buried them beneath the floorboards, make her give them back. [b]GIVE THEM BACK”[/b][/i] The voice had crackled like static, desperate, insistent, leaving Anissa's fingers shaking and her breath caught in her throat. When she'd snapped out of it, blinking back the unshed tears, she’d met her mother’s concerned gaze with a forced smile, pretending the tremor in her voice was excitement for the fabric's softness and not fear of her first spirit encounter clinging desperately to her reality. 

The memory sent a chill skittering up her spine even now, pulling her abruptly back into the present, to the quiet hum of the engines, the soft lighting, and the surreal peace of the airplane cabin. Ani leaned back into the plush seat, willing her racing heart to slow. All those memories, all those moments…she could never truly outrun them. They’d followed her onto this plane, she was sure of it,  and they’d be waiting for her wherever she landed. It was only a matter of time….

Her gaze flicked nervously around the cabin, briefly catching her own reflection in the darkened windowpane, a study of many contradictions—wide-eyed but mesmerizing, pale but glow-kissed in the cabin light, faint shadows beneath her brown eyes that popped with her eye liner, belying sleepless nights spent dissecting every line of that letter. Not to mention the dream that had come not too long after it, erasing whatever doubts she may have had at the time. 

Three nights after the letter arrived, Anissa found herself drifting seamlessly into a vivid dream. She’d found herself on a shore defying logic—obsidian sands shimmering with bioluminescent flecks, an ocean stretching placid and endless beneath a bruised sky. No moon, no stars, only brilliant streaks of violet and gold smeared across the heavens as if by a god’s careless thumb. The horizon hung low, heavy with impending storms, clouds churning restlessly in the distance. The ocean before her stretched endlessly, eerily calm, its stillness more unsettling than any violent wave.

It rose from the water’s glassine surface, a colossus draped in kelp that writhed like living serpents. Shadows clung to its form, obscuring features yet, at the same time, sharpening its aura of dominion. In its hand, a pomegranate split open, seeds glistening like gems. Juice dripped from its fingers, staining the water crimson where it fell. No words passed its lips, yet Anissa felt the offer reverberate through her: a summons, Persephone’s bargain, a descent into realms where sunlight dared not reach. 

This time, she was the one bound for hell. 

Not as a translator, not as a guide, but another poor, lost soul who had yet to comprehend the cost of being claimed by the dead. What it meant to be chosen not with love but with inevitability. 

When she dared blink, the figure had vanished, leaving only the fruit adrift before the abyss reclaimed it. But the vision’s aftershocks lingered. She’d woken with brine stiffening her hair, the pomegranate’s cloying sweetness clotting in her throat, her pulse racing, certainty carved firmly into her soul: the letter had been no coincidence, the dream no mere figment. Her father's claim was real. Still… she’d tried to shake it. Even searched “pomegranate dream meaning” one night, like it was a fever she could self-diagnose. 

Half the results were biblical, while the rest had said she was either fertile, cursed, or emotionally constipated. So, no help there.

Whatever awaited her in Greece was inevitable, a destiny she could no longer ignore.

The plane shuddered as it cleaved through puffy cumuli, turbulence rattling the ice in abandoned glasses. Anissa’s fingers retrieved her phone, its screen glowing with the artist she hadn’t stopped playing since boarding (she was a fan, what else could she say to explain it?). She slid the earbuds in slowly, the silicone tips sealing her into her own private underworld.

[i]And I've been sitting at the bottom of a swimming pool…[/i]

The cabin’s opulence dissolved, replaced by the black-sand shore of her dream, the pomegranate’s garnet seeds glinting like eyes in the dark. She pressed her temple to the window, cool glass grounding her as the singer’s voice slithered into her skull, a serpent offering knowledge she both craved and feared.

[i]Do you feel like a young god?[/i]

[i]No,[/i] she thought. She did not feel like a god. She felt like a lit match in a gas leak, all spark, no control. Chosen? She was chosen only in the way a rabbit is chosen by a hawk. Powerful? Her “gifts” had always been a curse, peeling back veils to reveal horrors that sometimes left her mute for days. Yet the song thrummed with a truth she couldn’t outrun: power wasn’t purity. It was the hunger in the god’s gaze as they devoured their humble and [s]foolish[/s] earnest supplicants.

Her lips moved soundlessly with the next verse as the cabin plunged into temporary gloom. The plane lurched again, and she let her eyes close, surrendering to the vertigo.

This is how it happens, she realized. Not with a portal or a bang, but a slow bleed. Camp Athens wasn’t a destination, it was an autopsy table. They’d crack her open and pluck out the long, rotten core, the thing that drew spirits like flies to meat. The letter’s author knew it. The drowned woman knew it. Even the pomegranate god, offering her a choice that wasn’t a choice at all, knew it. 

Revelation or ruin, the distinction mattered less now. The shadows had already tasted her. All that remained was to see which would claim her first: the gods waiting below, or the ones she’d carried inside her all along.[/indent] 

[hr][hr][url=https://open.spotify.com/track/5x2XIAdvFxWCwIOMNkbWUj?si=e4734ddfa17744af][img]https://i.postimg.cc/65z3m7BP/Anissa-Quinn.gif[/img][/url][hr][hr]

[indent]Fresh snowfall clung to Anissa Quinn’s boots, softening her footfalls as she trudged up the winding path toward the camp. The trees flanking either side of the trail stood like sentinels, their bare branches powdered with frost, crackling faintly under heavy snow. Wind hissed low between them, not sharp enough to sting but cold enough to gnaw at exposed skin. Anissa’s breath fogged before her in shallow bursts, her gloved fingers curling tightly around the handle of her suitcase as it rolled reluctantly through patches of ice and half-buried gravel.

She wasn’t dressed like someone bound for possible danger or someone seeking sanctuary, for that matter. Instead, Anissa wore a long, black wool coat cinched at the waist with a wide leather belt, the lapels turned up to shield her neck from the cold. Underneath peeked dark leggings tucked into heeled ankle boots—not the most practical for trudging through snow, but the fur lining offered some compromise. Her mother had always insisted on style even in practicality, and the coat, at least, was warm enough. A soft blush scarf was looped around her throat, matching the inside of her satin-palmed gloves. Her hair was worn loose today, dark waves tumbling over her shoulders, already dusted with snowflakes that clung to it unwilling to let go. Her face also bore traces of makeup: faint shimmer along her cheekbones, mascara clinging to her lashes despite the chill. Her lips were slightly chapped, but still painted with a warm rose tint that defied the ice-cold bleakness around her.

Dragging behind her was a pale pink suitcase with gold metal corners, the wheels rattling against frozen patches of earth. Her carry-on, slung across her body in a black faux-leather satchel, was just as sleek-looking and carefully maintained, with a silver zipper shaped like a crescent moon. Attached to the strap was a small rabbit’s foot charm she’d found in her mother’s sewing drawer when she was thirteen. Sentimental superstition. Even now, the soft fur grazed her hip with every step like something she couldn’t quite leave behind. Perhaps as a reminder of the person it had belonged to, that she had.

Ahead, through a thinning cluster of trees dusted in white, the girl was finally relieved to see the silhouette of the top part of a gate emerge, tall, imposing, and etched black against the purity of winter. Its iron spires reached skyward like talons petrified mid-strike, the sight spurring both intimidating and oddly reassuring feelings within her.  Frost had filigreed the metal with crystalline lace, transforming the structure into a macabre masterpiece of beauty and menace entwined. This was no sun-dappled refuge of canoe rides and campfire songs. The few earlier fantasies of normalcy she’d had, of bunk beds, friendship bracelets, some sanitized version of belonging, now seemed laughably naive. The camp’s austerity was a confession: Here, we do not pretend or hide what we are and what we can do. 

There were no cheerful banners to gaslight her into forgetting why she’d come, no kindly counsellors to dilute the truth. The gate’s severity was a contract etched in iron. Once she passed its bars, the luxury of her ignorance could no longer be kept. Containment, possibly, but also, weirdly enough, catharsis. 

Her steps faltered as the flutter in her chest metastasized, wings beating against her ribcage. She paused, scarf slipping as she tilted her face toward the gate’s apex. The cold gnawed at her exposed throat, but the true chill came from within—a creeping certainty that the camp’s walls were not barriers, but sieves. They’d let the right horrors in. Keep the wrong ones out.

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[center][b][i]Crunch.[/i][/b][/center] 

Anissa froze. 

Her pulse quickened, breath catching softly in her throat as every muscle tensed in sudden awareness. Her mind immediately raced for explanations: a deer, perhaps, or a branch heavy with snow finally succumbing to gravity. 

But she knew better. She always knew better.

“[color=#5a3e85]Just keep walking. You’re almost there,[/color]” she murmured softly to herself, her voice offering more comfort than courage. Anissa resumed moving, faster now, snow and ice protesting beneath her impractical footwear. She forced her gaze straight ahead, locking onto the gate that appeared more and more, even as every instinct screamed that she was no longer alone. 

Yes, she was no longer alone. She could spot a few figures now standing at the camp’s entrance, two, maybe three, their shapes blurred by distance and snowfall. Human? She willed herself to believe it. To quicken her pace. But the presence behind her pressed closer still, a pressure against her spine as tangible as a cold breath on her neck. Her boots skidded on ice, the suitcase lurching sideways. She caught it, heart jackhammering, and turned.

The trail behind her stretched empty, tranquil. Mocking her unease. 

Trees stood silent on either side, branches heavy and still. Her eyes darted nervously from shadow to shadow, searching for movement that wasn't there. The oppressive silence felt louder somehow, punctuated only by the ragged cadence of her breathing and the distant murmur of voices ahead at the gate.

“[color=#5a3e85]You're finally losing it, Ani,[/color]” she whispered harshly, breath frosting on the air. She turned forward once more, shaking her head, determined now to reach the gate before paranoia consumed what little composure she had left.

The figure materialized inches from her face, its form coalescing from snowflakes and dirt. 

Frost rimed its outline, a negative space shaped like a man, features smeared as if by a thumb across wet paint. Cold radiated from it in waves, searing her lungs with each breath. Anissa recoiled, but her boots rooted to the earth, muscles locked in primal submission. In turn, the apparition seemed to shudder, fingers elongating from vapour and shadow. Its mouth gaped, a black hole howling in silent form. She felt the plea in her mind instead, not quite words, but a raw, magnetic need she could not comprehend. 

Anissa had seen spirits before. Felt them. Spoken to them. The dead clung to her like perfume that never washed out, always there, always familiar. But this was different. This wasn’t the slow, aching sorrow of a lost mother looking for her child, or the furious grief of someone murdered and buried beneath the wrong name. This wasn’t one of the ghosts she’d grown used to parsing through tears and riddles.

This was an incarnate absence. 

There was no true emotion in it. No voice. No name curling at the edges of her thoughts, begging to be remembered. It didn’t ache with longing or throb with unfinished purpose. It simply was, and its presence left her gut empty, her body humming with the basic understanding that she was in the presence of something that [i]should not be.[/i]

Not a ghost. Not even a soul.

Just a scar in the world, still bleeding.

And then it was gone, as abruptly as it had appeared. Not cauterized, but no longer allowing itself to be seen if she had to guess. Anissa stood unmoving for a moment longer to make sure, ears straining for an understanding that didn’t come. The silence had returned, but it wasn’t peace. It was the aftermath. Her breath steamed out in tight, shallow exhales, clouding the air like smoke from something just extinguished.

She didn’t move until the frost began to bite again through her gloves.

Even then, her limbs obeyed stiffly, as though whatever she’d witnessed had rearranged her bones beneath her skin. Her boots scraped against the ice, suitcase lurching behind her like a dragged body. Her fingers curled tighter around the suitcase handle, and she found herself wondering, without meaning to, what kind of violence had created what she’d seen. What kind of death? Who had it been?  More importantly, how much of them was left to even be called human?

But no answers came. Just the snow. The wind. And the faint creak of the camp gates ahead, now visible in full, iron black and waiting. Whatever happened here, she thought grimly, she would probably find out with time. For now…there were people to make note of. Possibly to speak to. 

She spotted him standing a few paces from the gate, rigid, like he wasn’t sure whether to storm the place or bolt for the trees. His clothes didn’t scream demigod or danger, just… forest-dwelling sad poet with poor layering instincts despite his coat. Dusky work pants stuffed into boots that had seen too many winters, as far as she could tell. She clocked the hat, the faint tremor in his shoulders, the blank expression trying too hard not to be fear.

[i][color=#5a3e85]Stylish? No. Curious? Definitely.[/color][/i]

Anissa tilted her head, considering her options briefly, before making her way over to where he stood. She slowed as she neared him, her suitcase wobbling behind her, boots sinking deeper into the snow. He hadn’t seen her yet—or maybe he had and just didn’t care. That in itself was strange. Most people looked at her at least[i] once[/i]. He, on the other hand, seemed busy murmuring to the inside of his coat. Not muttering nervously or praying under his breath like the truly unhinged, to be fair, but speaking softly, pointedly, as if someone (or something) were answering back.

Anissa arched a brow. Wonderful. Either he was like her… or much worse.

Still, something about the way he looked at the gate made her pause instead of pass by. If anyone here might understand what it meant to be haunted, it was probably the boy holding a conversation with his pocket, wasn’t it? 

She cleared her throat gently, boots now crunching to a stop a few feet away. “[color=#5a3e85]Are you... waiting for an invitation?[/color]” Her voice carried that polished, mildly condescending lilt—part defence mechanism, part default tone. “[color=#5a3e85]Because I think we’re free to go in, if that’s what you’re wondering.[/color]” She stated this while gesturing to a few of the others as they walked right through the entrance to the camp.  

That was when her eyes, while shifting around, spotted [i]her[/i], a vision of cashmere and composure, gliding through the snow as if it were a Milanese runway. The girl was practically elegance weaponized: Cream turtleneck tucked into a pleated skirt that would’ve fluttered if the air weren’t so bitter. Knee-high boots, long coat draped over her shoulders, a quilted designer bag swinging from one arm like she was late for lunch on Madison Avenue. Every piece of clothing screaming of old money and opulence. 

Anissa’s brow twitched faintly.

She was pretty, with a capital “P”. A dangerous kind of pretty. Just her luck.

“[color=#5a3e85]Of course,[/color]” she murmured under her breath. It wasn’t envy. It was more so the reflexive bristle of someone trained from youth to spot perfection before it walked past them—and maybe to loathe it a little,  just in case.

That was when Anissa’s attention slid back to the boy before her. Maybe not as perfectly packaged, but at least he seemed as out of place as she felt. And maybe that was reason enough to stick with him for now. 

“[color=#5a3e85]So,[/color]” she continued, her voice a little softer while edged in something amused, “[color=#5a3e85]do you have a name, or should I guess?[/color]” Her head tilted slightly enough to catch the winter light across her cheekbones, the gesture effortless and way too practiced to be unintentional.[/indent][hr] 
Location: Outside Camp Entrance 
Mentions: Chariselle ([@PatientBean])
Interactions: Anatoliy ([@The Savant])
[hider=TL;DR]Scene 1: Anissa flies to Greece in first class because, let's be so for real, trauma should at least come with leg room.She reads a creepy-but-weirdly-poetic letter from someone claiming to be her deadbeat god-dad, who didn’t sign his name but absolutely knows everything there is to know about her. Cue a recall of a dramatic dream sequence: she's on a cursed beach, a seaweed-covered shadow-daddy offers her a bloody pomegranate. Then, she wakes up mildly soggy and deeply unsettled, listens to Halsey, contemplates fate, curses the gods, and prepares to be metaphorically autopsied at Camp Athens. Yayyyy

Scene 2: Anissa hikes through Narnia to get to the camp, which looks more like a prison than a camp. Something that isn't a ghost pops up briefly, kinda scares her, and then pops away. She continues on of course, rattled but absolutely still her fabulous self *flips hair* Spots Anatoliy talking to himself and of course judges him a bit for it. Then she spots a goddess (Chariselle) but still decides to at least ask Anatoliy for his name. [/hider]