Everything was dark.
No form, no time, no weight. A deep, silent, absolute void. No sound, no color, no memory. Only an absent presence. As if the mind had been ripped out and forgotten in a corner of the universe where even time dared not enter.
And at the center of that nothingness… Lana.
She didn't remember how she got there. Didn't know where she was, or for how long. She didn't remember her own name. Didn't remember people. Things. Places. She only existed — still, floating in a limbo that didn't hurt, didn't squeeze, but also didn't let her live.
There was a cruel peace in that absence. An anesthetic comfort, like a heavy blanket on a sedated body. No fear. No emotion. Only emptiness.
But then…
Something changed.
It wasn't light. It wasn't sound.
It was… an impulse. Like a mental tug, something that escaped the nothingness and pierced the barrier of unconsciousness. As if the tiniest crack opened at the top of that total darkness, letting through a vibration. A condensed memory. A weight. A sound.
"So, decide."
It wasn't spoken. It was felt.
And with it, something inside her shifted.
A forgotten muscle. An unfinished thought. A thread of impulse ran through the center of her body and lodged in her throat. And then, the void trembled. Nothing visible. Nothing concrete. But the kind of tremor that only exists inside someone beginning to wake from a deep coma.
"Wake up now… or lose everything."
That was enough.
The darkness reacted.
Not by retreating. But with fury. The void vibrated as if it had a life of its own. As if it were an intelligent prison that sensed the danger of that call. An invisible crack opened in the floor — if a floor existed at all — and from it escaped a hot breath, like the exhale of a sleeping entity.
The prison was alive.
And it knew Lana was responding.
For a moment, the darkness tried to seal itself again. The invisible contours of that mental cell adjusted, tightening slightly, trying to suffocate any attempt at rising. The mental walls built from trauma, fear, denial, and forgetting tried to activate their restraints.
But it was too late.
The crack widened.
And inside, Lana's eyes opened.
No reflection. No mirror. But she knew. She was standing. She was cold. And for the first time in a long while, she was afraid.
Her body trembled, though she didn't know if it was truly hers or just what was left of it. Ahead, there was still darkness. But now… there was also a point. Small. Distant. Flickering. A vertical line of white light cutting through nothingness like a glowing needle driven into infinity.
Lana stared at it.
And for the first time… she felt will.
The will to reach it. To touch it. To know.
She took a step.
Nothing changed. But the void seemed denser. More resistant. As if the simple act of walking demanded strength from someone without a body.
Even so, she continued.
Each step seemed to consume part of the fragile consciousness she still had. But each inch closer to that line of light changed the temperature around her. The chill of the darkness was no longer from outside. It came from within.
The resistance now wasn't physical.
It was internal.
On the outside, Isobel's breathing faltered. Her chest rose and fell in an unstable rhythm. Eyes open, fixed on nothing, losing focus. Sweat ran from her forehead, but it seemed to come from inside her skin, as if her body were trying to expel something that no longer belonged.
She clutched her temples hard, fingers digging into her skull.
"No. No. No. This isn't possible."
"She's trying to get out…"
"She's trying to expel me?"
Her mouth opened, but her teeth clenched before more words escaped. Her fingers trembled now, pressure against her head increasing.
"How dare she…"
"After everything I did for this body?"
"I prepared it. Molded it. Took care of it better than she ever did."
"She… has no right."
Her voice swung between disbelief and despair. Between rage and humiliation. And behind it all, one unforgivable detail: fear.
"She isn't strong enough. Never was."
"She was just a girl. Afraid. Weak. Always wanting others to solve everything for her."
"She can't be winning…"
Her head tilted slightly to the side. Her jaw locked. Her pupils dilated in an instant.
Clark watched.
His eyes didn't move. His body stayed still for exactly four seconds — long enough to recognize what stood before him. A trembling body. A split consciousness. A witch in collapse.
'It worked.'
The thought brought no relief. No satisfaction. Only fact. Clark moved closer once more.
Isobel tried to focus on him, but it was too late. The words from her own mouth were failing. The inner connection was crumbling like a structure without foundation.
Clark crouched with the same precision as before. His palm opened. The motion was slow, deliberate, not threatening. He stretched out his arm and touched the side of her head with his fingertips.
Heat spread across her skin.
Isobel tried to pull away, but she no longer had control. Not of her body. Not of her mind.
"It's over."
The touch triggered the collapse.
Isobel bent forward first, shoulders locked tight in tension. Her fingers, still pressed to her temples, spread in involuntary spasms. Her head shook side to side as if trying to flee her own skull. Neck muscles vibrated, nearly bursting under the invisible pressure building inside.
Her throat let out a dry sound. Not a scream. A failure. An attempt to vocalize something with no foothold in any known language. Her breathing faltered next. Irregular at first, then gasping, then simply choking. Her lungs pulled in air as if it tasted like glass.
Her legs buckled, body dropping to her knees. The skin at her nape turned pale. The room's temperature dropped a degree. Her heartbeat spiked, not from fear, but from survival instinct.
Her fingers tore part of her blouse as they tried to grab onto something. Her eyes rolled back for a full second. Her mouth twisted open. Words came out like curses spit between broken syllables.
"Bastard. You won't… you won't… erase me."
Her chest heaved, but she no longer had control. Her tongue slipped into disconnected curses, each weaker than the last. The words lost power before completing their cycle of rage. Her fists pounded the floor, but not with strength. With despair.
"I will… I will… damn you… I…"
Her body bent again, this time sideways. One shoulder hit the cracked wall. Her ribs contracted. A muffled groan echoed from her throat. Sweat glued her hair to her forehead, her neck, her back. One eye blinked in uneven rhythm. The other stayed fixed on nothing.
Her insults continued, now more lament than threat.
"You killed it all… everything… I… I was… I had been… you…"
Her voice broke again. The sound swallowed by a sob. Her whole body trembled. Her hands shifted from attack to embrace. An automatic, desperate gesture, stripped of dignity. Trying to hold onto herself, to avoid being torn out completely.
Her back arched in one last spasm. Her head fell back, as if something had been ripped out from within. Her body collapsed to the side, hitting the floor with a dull thud. Her legs curled in, folded against her chest.
The silence of the room was broken by a new sound. Small. A sigh.
Her eyes were still open. But they weren't the same.
No green glow. No threat. No arrogance. Only exhaustion. Confusion. A pair of wet eyes blinking as if seeing the world for the first time.
Her hand rose slowly, trembling.
Her fingers touched her own lips. Then her forehead. Then her cheeks.
Her mouth opened. Her breathing found rhythm again.
"Clark…?"
The voice was low. Weak. But it was hers.
Lana.
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