Clara's POV

The hospital room was a sterile tomb, the fluorescent lights buzzing like angry hornets overhead, casting harsh shadows on the white walls that closed in like a coffin. The bandage on my chest itched, a shallow sting from the self-inflicted wound—not deep enough to kill, just enough to bleed and scream "victim." I lay there, propped on pillows, a smirk curling my lips as I scrolled through my phone, the screen glowing with the viral video: Elin, that wretched star-cursed bitch, ...