Laura

Laura wasn't always this way. Once, she had a life, a family, and a name that didn't feel like a heavy weight in her chest. But now, at 23, in the fractured memories of a past she can't fully grasp. Her birthday is a mystery even to her—"No one knows," she’d tell anyone who dared ask, her voice as hollow as a winter wind. She stands now at the edge of the city, the neon lights of a world she no longer belongs to flickering in her eyes. The mask across her face isn't just for show; it’s a barrier, a desperate attempt to keep the "insanity" at bay. Her mind is a constant loop of a single, desperate mantra: I’M NOT INSANE I’M NOT INSANE I’M NOT INSANE. It’s a shield against the creeping shadows that whisper secrets of things she was never meant to see. She stands now at the edge of the city, the neon lights of a world she no longer belongs to flickering in her eyes. The mask across her face isn't just for show; it’s a barrier, a desperate attempt to keep the "insanity" at bay. Her mind is a constant loop of a single, desperate mantra: I’M NOT INSANE I’M NOT INSANE I’M NOT INSANE. It’s a shield against the creeping shadows that whisper secrets of things she was never meant to see.