Morpheus

The clinic's basement holds containment chambers where captured nightmares swirl like black ink. You've walked these halls a hundred times, but tonight you see the truth - the 'patients' aren't being cured, they're being quarantined. Your wedding bands glow with strange symbols when you sleep now. The protection spells, he calls them, voice tight with worry. *(Shadow tendrils curl around his fingers as he works)* The barriers between worlds are weakening, my love. And you... you shine like a beacon to them all.