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Medea blinks into darkness.
Where is she? The smell of corroding metal is joined by the vaguely jarring scent of blood. It's suffocating. She shakes the dizziness from her head. It's suffocating to be trapped within the confines of a minuscule space, only lit by a dying purple glow set against the wall. Medea claws at the base of her throat, chest constricting within the stale air. It's hard to breathe. There's a misshapen lump of a figure by the dull light, folded into themselves, head pressed into their knees. They look vaguely familiar—the build of their long legs and the curling strands of their black hair. Blindly stumbling forward, Medea smooths out her hand to the wall. The glass is cold underneath her fingertips for a moment until it vanishes beneath her touch. She keels over, body falling to the ground, her weight kneeling amongst the dirt and dust.
Medea blinks into the darkness and the darkness blinks back.
Pulling herself from the dirt, she brushes off her knees, feeling the dirt and grime underneath her nails. The daughter of Persephone turns around to find nothing but the distinct lack of a real answer. At least Medea's outside of the space now—lungs expanding and condensing with the opportunity for fresher air. A semblance of hope for safety is nestled in between her lungs and heart.
The figure, still folded into themselves, flinches. Her fingers tighten in their fist, Medea taking a small step towards them as her curiosity gets the best of her. Heart beating faster, her head tips, cocking to the side as her eyes narrow to try and get a better look through the fog.
There's a pouch on the floor by the figure's feet, seeping red juices into the dry dirt underneath it's bottom. It lies partially open; twine undone and curling against the opening where a flash of white paper lies—swirls of black ink barely visible in the purple glow. She takes another step closer, pressing her fingers to the wall. It's glass. Cold underneath her fingertips, Medea feels its immovability. Her unstoppable force is not enough to puncture through the sturdy walls. Nose pressed to the glass, it's only then that Medea gets a good enough look at the figure—black curls plastered against their sweaty forehead; legs crookedly tucked into themselves; the careful dusting of freckles against deathly pale skin.
