Down The Rabbit Hole

In the dim glow of her cluttered bedroom, Clara (Eliza Eves) paces restlessly, her voice a husky murmur as she gossips with Lacey about the looming haze of graduation and that godforsaken Prom. A heavy sigh escapes her lips; she's clawed her way into her fantasy business school, and Lacey's thrilled squeals echo through the phone. But Clara's gratitude drips with shadows—she confesses the gnawing dread of scraping by, alone and broke. Lacey tosses out a wicked jest, bartering her untouched innocence like cheap currency. Clara recoils, forcing a brittle laugh, but as the call dies, a darker chuckle bubbles up, twisting into a haunted gaze. She chides her reflection, 'Don't be a fool,' yet the inner storm rages—grocery gigs, dead-end shifts, all too paltry for the abyss ahead. Her fingers ghost over the swell of her breasts, tracing the taut line of her belly, desire warring with doubt in her fevered eyes. Desperation claws deeper; she dives into the web, firing off a coy plea to her circle. They scoff, but a venomous link slithers into view. Lips caught between teeth, she hovers, pulse hammering—then steel resolve hardens her stare. Click. Her eyes blaze wide, devouring the forbidden text, heart pounding in the rabbit hole's jagged maw.