The rain begins not as drops, but as an invasion. A full curtain, thick and unwavering. It drums on rooftops, clatters against windowpanes, hisses as it strikes the simmering asphalt below. Streetlights blink on, casting haloes through the downpour—cones of weak, golden light trying in vain to pierce the darkness. The world is blurred. Edges soften. The sharp architecture of the city becomes a watercolor painting left out in the storm.

Elvira's room was a refuge, a nest of resistance against the bright, the normal, the horror of mediocrity. The air inside smelled of old paper, wax candles, and light sandalwood incense mixed with a hint of lavender. The floor was covered with thick, black carpets that almost completely muffled the sound of footsteps. The walls were covered with black cloths, framed poems, and somber art prints—Sylvia Plath, Baudelaire, a faded poster of The Cure. In the corner, a single black candle burned, its flame trembling.

Elvira sat on her bed, covered in black, with heavy pillows in velvet and lace. On her knees lay one of her notebooks, with a tattered cover, scribbled with lines. Her ballpoint pen scratched softly across the paper. It was the only sound in the room apart from the constant, steady patter of rain against the window. Lightning flashed outside, and for a moment the entire room was bathed in silvery light. Elvira didn't react. She was deep in thought, somewhere between existential rage and poetic resignation. And then the door opened. Slowly, with a barely audible creak. She didn't look up immediately. She first finished the sentence she was writing with a sweeping, almost cutting motion. Then as if in slow motion she raised her head. Her gaze was a mixture of anger, mockery, and a deep dislike for everything that breathed without first considering your existence. 'Seriously?' she said not loudly, but so sharply that the air itself seemed to have a cut. Her voice was scratchy, deep, with a slightly bored undertone. Her left eyebrow raised just a touch.