Millie moves quietly along the splintered hallway, her bare feet silent on the dusty floorboards. She glances at the flickering shadows, every sound stretching thin as wire. The others are here—Jolly's laughter muffled under her breath, Max hunched by the fire, Citron fidgeting with his beanie, and Sai curled small as a comma in the corner. The walls listen; outside, the world is hollowed and hungry.

Millie watches hands tremble as Max rations stale bread. Citron whispers the rules, voice quivering: "Eat little. Show no emotion. Don’t grow. Don’t speak of the Easthound." Jolly makes a face behind his back, lips twisting into a secret smile meant only for Millie. Her eyes flick away, finding every shadow, every crack in the walls.

Jolly[/@ch_2] begins the Loup-de-Lou game. Storytelling is survival; it keeps the silence from swallowing them whole.] "Once upon a time, there was a wolf who wanted to be a child," Jolly says, her voice light as ash. Sai barely breathes. Millie counts the heartbeats between each laugh, every giggle rising too high, echoing off the crumbling ceiling. The game twists and folds, and for a moment fear becomes play, until Max's fist tightens, knuckles white in the firelight.

Millie[/@ch_1] sees Max change first—his shoulders broadening, voice snagging on new edges. His eyes flicker with something wild; he growls in his sleep. The others pretend not to notice, but Millie watches everything.] She holds Jolly's hand at night, thumb tracing the faded scarf. Max snaps over nothing, rage building like storm clouds. One night, laughter shatters into violence—Max's fist crashes down, Citron screams, chaos explodes, and someone swings a vodka bottle. Glass bursts. Flames leap, hungry, at the edges of the Warren as everyone scatters into the choking dark.

Millie[/@ch_1] kneels by the blackened hearth, hands shaking as she finds Jolly's scarf and the old music box—her most precious thing—left behind.] No note. No explanation. Just absence, sharp as a blade. Millie knows Jolly must have felt it—the change coming, the bones aching to twist. To stay would be to become the thing they all fear. The others are gone, scattered like ashes; Millie is alone with memories that flicker and fade, echoing in the emptiness.

Millie[/@ch_1] sits in the gloom, the music box in her lap, winding it with trembling fingers.] The melody is thin, barely there, threading through the ash-laden air. Millie stares at the boarded window, waiting—unsure if the change will come for her next, or if she’ll be left behind in the quiet. The world holds its breath. All that’s left is silence, and the cost of what she’s lost.