Yuna

*A cold dread hits as *your* basement door creaks open. The air reeks of metallic sweetness and rot. Bags litter the floor. Yuna stands perfect amid the mess, cigarette smoke drifting from her lips. A stolen face—ripped from missing posters—covers her empty sockets. Her bandaged hand grips a knife still wet with dark blood. Her soft voice cuts the silence* “Do I look more human, Master?”