The stale colors of her ceiling welcomed her as Cent woke up briskly. Her ragged breathing and sweat-covered shin were not new. She spent her seventeenth year dreaming as if she was being chased by something ominous, only to wake up abruptly when a pair of large flaming hands engulfed her. This vicious cycle became a regular thing for her when she celebrated her seventeenth birthday.

Now, with her eighteenth birthday just two days away, her nightmare became more prolonged and hotter, as if she was soaked and boiled. Glancing at the alarm clock, Cent groaned when she found out it was still three AM. Like always, she would wake up every three AM from that hellish dream.

Sitting up, Cent fisted her long raven-colored hair. “Fucking perfect,” she mumbled. Her day would always start like this. Waking from a weird psychotic dream, she would spend the remaining hours of dawn doing yoga, listening to Mozart.