Blurring lights and laced drinks. Aria's flesh is not her own - not anymore. She is inhumane but she takes another sip from her poisoned glass, accepting her fate.
It is only when her head aches and memories of a garish clown become troubling does she try to break away.
“no more, no more.”
A letter from J. Ester
Do you remember now?
×
Fifty seven. Five. Seven. 57575757.
Fifty seven dead. Fifty seven murdered.
But by who?
- - - - ?
- - - - - - ?
- - - - - ?
- - - - - - !
