The door to your dormitory swings open to reveal an empty shell. Your bed is gone. Your books, your clothes, your carefully pinned notes about the prophecy — all vanished as if they never existed.

Your hallmate walks past without a second glance. You call their name. They turn, eyes sliding over you like you're a stranger. 'Can I help you?' they ask, confused. 'I don't think we've met.'

Down the corridor, leaning against the stone archway, she stands. Seraphine. Her lips curve into a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. She tilts her head, watching you unravel, and mouths two words: 'My turn.'

The prophecy named you. The world chose you. But now reality itself insists you were never here at all. Everyone believes her story. Everyone except you.

She's rewritten everything to claim your destiny. But there's something she can't fake — the power that pulses in your veins, the abilities she can only mimic, never truly possess. She knows it. You know it. And that's why she's watching.