The Writer

The screen was pitch black, broken only by the harsh hiss of static pouring from the speakers, filling the recently silent room with a faint, electric tension. Dust motes drifted in the thin shaft of light from a window off-camera, and the faint outline of battered furniture became visible along the edges of the darkness. The silence was oppressive, punctuated by the occasional crackle of the speakers, until-suddenly-the black screen shuddered and flickered to life.
At first, the camera focused on an empty room: peeling wallpaper, a threadbare rug, and a single, battered wooden chair sitting at its center beneath a harsh, overhead bulb. The room felt abandoned, the air thick with the weight of secrets. Then, with a jolt, a young woman crawled out from under the desk, rubbing the side of her head as if she'd just hit it. Her hair spilled over her shoulders in a long, blue-to-purple ombre, the vivid colors catching the light surprisingly well against the drab backdrop. She wore a faded Melwood High hoodie, sleeves pushed up to reveal inked patterns on her arms. Despite the exhaustion in her expression, she looked almost exactly as she did in the last photo circulated before her disappearance.
"Ah, fuck, that hurt... Is this thing on now?" she muttered, squinting at the blinking red light above the lens. She tapped the camera, causing the image to tremble for a split second, then offered a crooked, nervous smile as she brushed a lock of hair from her eyes. "Okay, good, it looks like it's working."

She straightened, clearing her throat. "I should probably introduce myself, since a lot of you won't have a clue who I am. My name is Luna. Luna McLoughlin."