Little clicks of information fall into place, cutting through fog with hard facts. Hellsing. Dean. Integra. Sir Integra. The shadow on the wall wasn't real, and it had never moved. She had made it herself. She wasn't five, or twelve, she wasn't at home or lost in the woods.

Her arms were covered with smudged ink. When had she done that? Why had she created such a large, pieced together image of something she never wanted to see again?

"I got..." Rubbing at one of the crossed out circles on her palm, Mabel chews on her lip. "I got some bad shit in my head. The nightmares, they just kinda... took over. They - they were just nightmares, right?"