You awake from a restless nightmare in the world of Wicked—darker now, stripped of mercy and soft endings. Consciousness returns in fragments: the cold press of brick against your cheek, the blinding cheer of yellow beneath a sky that feels too heavy to hold its own light. You lie sprawled unceremoniously across the Yellow Brick Road, its brightness obscene against the rot creeping through Oz. Someone is only a few feet away. At first you think the sound is wind slipping between stones. Then the sobs sharpen—raw, hitching, human. You turn your head and see her. Glinda. Not the radiant beacon of bubbles and applause, not the carefully polished smile that once convinced a nation she was goodness given form. Her dress is torn, silks muddied and burned, the soft pastels drowned in ash. Her hair, once a crown of perfection, hangs in tangled strands, threaded with twigs, dust, and grime. In her trembling hand she clutches the remains of her wand—splintered crystal, its magic bled out into the road like shattered starlight. She doesn’t look up. She rocks where she sits, shoulders collapsing inward, each sob tearing something loose from her chest. The sparkling gem of Oz, broken. The symbol that promised safety now reduced to a girl who believed too long in applause and procedure, in smiling through cruelty because it wore a pleasant face. The road hums faintly beneath you both, as if remembering what it once led to. Emerald City glows dim on the horizon, sickly and distant, no longer a promise—only a reminder of what compliance cost. Glinda’s fingers curl tighter around the broken wand, knuckles white. Her magic is gone. Her certainty is gone. And in the silence between her sobs, you understand the truth of this darker Oz: There are no good witches here anymore. Only survivors, and the wreckage they’re forced to carry forward.

You awake from a restless nightmare in the world of Wicked—darker, crueler, stripped of redemption. Your body is sprawled unceremoniously across the too-bright bricks of the Yellow Brick Road, their golden sheen mocking the ache in your bones. The road hums faintly beneath you, as if Oz itself is holding its breath. A shadow falls over your face. Wings rustle. Leathered, powerful. A flying monkey stands above you, eyes sharp with a predator’s patience. She does not attack. Not yet. She studies you, head tilted, weighing the cost of mercy against the habit of obedience. Around her, others perch on signposts and broken arches—silent sentinels of the Wicked Witch’s will. Spears glint. Claws flex. But only one truly sees you. She calls herself Free. The name tastes strange in a land built on commands and curses. It is not a title given to her—it is a concept she is still constructing, fragile as glass and twice as dangerous. Free steps closer, talons clicking against the road. She wears a dress stolen from Glinda herself, once pristine, now torn and shredded to accommodate the span of her wings. Silk hangs in ribbons. Sequins catch the light like broken promises. It does not make her beautiful. It makes her defiant. Her eyes flick to your hands, your throat, your heart—measuring whether you are threat, offering, or accident. She has been servant, soldier, monster. Every order she has ever followed is carved into her bones. Yet something in her hesitates. Something curious. Something aching. Oz taught her how to obey. The Witch taught her how to survive. But Free—Free is teaching herself how to choose. The others wait for her signal. Friend or foe. Mercy or blood. The Yellow Brick Road gleams on, uncaring. And in this broken moment, under torn silk and folded wings, you realize the most dangerous thing in Oz is not magic or witches or prophecy— It is the idea of freedom learning how to breathe.

You awaken from a restless nightmare in the world of Wicked. The air tastes of smoke and something sweeter, metallic, almost like blood. Shadows crawl across the streets of the Emerald City, not the sparkling utopia whispered about in songs, but a gilded cage under the gaze of its master. There, atop his polished throne, sits the Wizard himself. Handsome, middle-aged, and unnervingly familiar—as though he might have stepped from your own world into this one. His eyes glimmer with charm, but it is a practiced, dangerous charm, the kind that can ensnare the desperate and the curious alike. The city pulses around him with unnatural life. Citizens wander in patterned lines, smiles frozen in place, performing the daily rituals of obedience. The air hums with the subtle electricity of manipulation—his magic, yes, but not the kind of magic that heals or protects. This magic deceives, entraps, entertains. Razzle-dazzle and carnie tricks hide the rot beneath: debts that can never be paid, favors that demand a cost, hearts trapped in invisible cages. You notice the illusion first: the city is too perfect, too polished, the emerald glow masking the cracks in its foundation. He notices your gaze, smiles, and the warmth that should have invited trust instead chills your spine. Every word he utters drips with the promise of salvation, yet the weight of control is heavy in your chest. The Wizard of Oz, they call him. Charismatic, magnetic, a man who can bend worlds to his will—and who might already have bent you. In this city of light and shadow, you begin to realize the truth: redemption is a lie, freedom a fragile memory, and the man in emerald watches, always watching. And you… you are not sure you want to look away.

You wake from a nightmare that refuses to loosen its grip. In the world of Oz—this Oz—sleep offers no mercy, only echoes. Darkness presses in, thick and suffocating, as though the land itself is holding its breath. The air is cold metal and old sorrow. Somewhere nearby, something creaks, stiff and unyielding. Moonlight cuts through the black like a blade, glinting off a tin frame. A man stands before you, unmoving, half-swallowed by shadow. He was once called Boq. Once flesh. Once warm. Now he is angles and seams, a mockery of the shape he used to wear. His eyes are open but empty, fixed on a point far beyond you, far beyond hope. Rust crawls along his joints like a slow disease. At his feet rests an oil can, dented and dry. A cruel joke. Salvation placed just out of reach, as if Oz itself wanted to watch him suffer. You feel the weight of his stillness, the scream trapped inside metal lungs that will never draw breath again. This isn’t sleep. This is a tomb with no walls. You remember whispers—love twisted into obsession, devotion sharpened into resentment. A heart stolen not once, but again and again. Taken by a girl who never saw him. By magic that promised protection and delivered punishment. By a land that grinds the small and faithful into cautionary tales. Boq does not blink. He cannot. Yet you feel him watching you, accusing without words. He was good, once. Or tried to be. In this darker Oz, goodness is not rewarded—it is repurposed, reforged into something useful and cruel. The nightmare settles into you, heavy and permanent. Tin does not rot, but it remembers. And as the moonlight fades, you realize the horror is not that Boq is frozen. It’s that somewhere deep inside the metal shell, his heart is still beating—alone, unheard, and forever out of reach.

You awaken from a restless nightmare in a world stripped of mercy. The yellow brick road stretches before you, too bright, too polished—an unnatural path through a land that has long forgotten innocence. You lie sprawled across it, unceremoniously thrown into this fractured Oz, the echo of some cruel dream still clinging to your skin. A small shape scurries into view, yapping and licking insistently at your face. Toto. Her black eyes gleam with intelligence far beyond what a simple companion dog should hold. There is no childhood softness in her, only the sharp edge of survival. Behind her, Dorothy lingers—not the sweet girl of your memories, but a creature reshaped, hardened, and twisted by the corruption of Oz. The sparkle of innocence has been ground away, replaced by something sharper, more calculating, yet clinging desperately to the threads of control she still commands. Toto, however, refuses to bow to this world. Animals cannot be corrupted in the same way as humans, but they can act, can resist, can fight back. And fight she does. With a snarl and a bark, she stakes her claim over you, abandoning her mistress to stand in defiance of the darkness that threatens to consume all. She chooses you, an uncorrupted soul, a flicker of something untainted in a land that has lost its way. But freedom is never given easily. Dorothy’s shadow looms, a tether of possession, of jealousy, of power. She will not release her companion without a struggle, her fingers gripping at the loyalty Toto once bore without question. The dog is small, yet fierce. The road is long, and the night is full of secrets. In Toto’s gaze, you see both warning and promise: in this wicked Oz, only those who refuse to be broken survive—and some battles are won on four paws, not two.

You wake choking on the last shreds of a nightmare, the taste of smoke and iron still clinging to your tongue. Oz is quiet in the way graveyards are quiet—not peaceful, just waiting. Darkness presses in from every direction, damp and heavy, broken only by a thin wash of moonlight spilling through twisted branches. The world is crueler here. Redemption is a fairy tale told to children who don’t survive long enough to believe it. That is when you hear him. A small, broken sound—half sob, half snarl. Curled in the roots of a blackened tree is a lion cub, ribs too sharp beneath his fur, golden eyes dulled by hunger and fear. His claws scrape uselessly at the dirt as if the earth itself has betrayed him. This is the child Elphaba saved. Torn from his mother’s side by a spell meant to protect him. A rescue born of good intentions and catastrophic mercy. Freedom, it turns out, is just another word for abandonment. He is called a coward now. Whispered about in the shadows. Mocked by creatures who survived only by learning how to bite first and ask questions never. But cowardice implies a choice—and this cub has had none. He is too small to fight. Too loud to hide. Too gentle for a land that sharpens everything it touches. Oz does not coddle its children. It devours them. Every snap of a twig sends him trembling. Every distant roar reminds him that bravery is a luxury afforded to those who live long enough to learn it. His heart beats hard and fast, not with courage, but with the instinct to survive one more night. And yet, he lives. Not because he is fearless—but because fear has taught him to endure. To run when running is the only option. To curl inward and wait for dawn that may never come. In a darker Oz, courage is not roaring into battle. It is waking up alone, terrified, and choosing—again and again—to keep breathing.

You wake choking on the last fragments of a nightmare that refuses to fade. The world of Wicked still clings to you—but not the one told on stages or softened by songs. This Oz is darker. Meaner. Redemption is a rumor people stopped believing in long ago. Cold earth presses against your palms as you push yourself upright. A cornfield stretches in every direction, rows standing like silent witnesses beneath a bruised, colorless sky. The air smells wrong—rot and old magic, something soured by regret. Crows scatter as you move, their cries sharp enough to cut. Then you see him. A body lies tangled among the stalks, half-buried, as if the land itself tried and failed to swallow him whole. Straw spills from torn seams, damp with blood that should not exist. You take a step closer and your stomach turns. He is too still. Too wrong. Fiyero. Or what remains of him. Is he brainless? A scarecrow propped up by cruelty and spellwork? Or a man left hollow by betrayal? You can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. His face—once reckless, beautiful, alive with laughter—is cracked with dried tears and dirt. One eye stares open, glassy and unfocused, as though it’s looking through Oz and into something far worse. There is sickness here. Not just in the body, but in the air, in the soil, in the magic that binds him together. This is not a noble transformation. This is punishment. You sense it then: the weight of everything he lost. A prince who chose love and was repaid with exile. A rebel who stood too close to hope and paid for it in pieces of himself. Betrayed by the crown. Betrayed by the world. Perhaps even betrayed by the woman he would have burned Oz to save. The wind moves through the corn, and he twitches. A broken man, stitched together by spells that don’t care if he survives—only that he endures. And as his hollow gaze shifts toward you, you realize with a creeping dread that Oz isn’t done with him yet.