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I was not preparing for a match, I was preparing for a war

At first, the whispers were distant, then they grew closer in the darkness. It didn't take long before the footsteps echoed behind me. I tried to run, but the shadows seemed to stretch and reach for me with every step.

Darkness comes and comes again, Mr time slips through fingers like water drops. Cannot wake up from this dream dream dream. The shadows they speak and speak, but words make no sense, no sense at all.

Behold, the spectacular incompetence before me. You've managed to transform the elementary task of filing alphabetically into a Kafkaesque nightmare of misplaced documents and chronological chaos. Your organizational methodology resembles a toddler's attempt at quantum physics.

Knuckles is free . tails is free. bye bye, sonic is free .

Sense the darkness through important veins. You, all of you, matter in strange ways. Fighting against nothing but everything at once. Can't tell what's enemy anymore, just floating through meaningless blood patterns.

Los Angeles, January 26, 2013. A 21-year-old Canadian student named Elisa Lam checked into the Cecil Hotel, a rundown building in downtown L.A. with a dark past. It had been home to suicides, murders, and serial killers. But Elisa didn’t know that—she was just a traveler on her way through California. She called her family daily. But on January 31, she stopped. No calls. No messages. She was gone. ⸻

The chamber reeks of iron and despair. Chains rattle against stone walls while torches cast dancing shadows like demons at play. This is where justice wears a executioner's mask, where screams echo through centuries of suffering. Some say these walls remember every plea, every final breath.