Control | Moon Knight

5.0

In the depths of the night, Cleo Hassan is ensnared within the confines of a restless sleep. Her body tosses and turns, a prisoner to the clutches of a nightmarish realm. The vivid visions that plague her mind paint a portrait of terror and despair, as an elusive deity, weaves a tapestry of torment. The God remains a specter, concealed in the shadows of Cleo's subconscious. They delight in toying with her fragile psyche, orchestrating a symphony of tricks and illusions that push her senses to the brink. The air becomes heavy with a pungent scent, the foul odor of wet dog that claws at her nostrils, sending waves of repulsion through her being.

Within the confines of the movie in her mind, reality distorts and contorts, mirroring the turmoil within her soul. Shadows writhe and whisper, taunting her with their sinister murmurs. Laughter, haunting and derisive, echoes in the distance, a cruel soundtrack to her deepest fears. The God revels in this malevolent theater, a conductor of her nightmares, pulling the strings of her consciousness. Cleo's grasp on sleep weakens, her subconscious pleading for release from this torment. Beads of perspiration dot her forehead, her body drenched in a cold sweat that mirrors the icy grip of fear.

Beside her lay Marc, who assumes control of the body as he wakes up to her tossing and turning in the bed. He can hear the faint sound of cries and whimpers, which pulls him out of his sleepy daze.

In the ethereal realm between wakefulness and dreams, Cleo's consciousness flickers, yearning for liberation from the clutches of her tormentor. And in this moment of vulnerability, Marc, attuned to her distress, reaches out to her, an anchor forged by their boundless love.

"Cleo," He murmurs, his voice a melodic reassurance that cuts through the chaos, "Come back to me, baby. You are not alone."

His words, like a soothing melody, penetrate the veil of her troubled mind, coaxing her back to the realm of reality. Cleo's eyes flutter open, adjusting to the dimly lit room. Marc's serene countenance fills her vision, his gaze brimming with concern and unwavering devotion.

"You're safe now," He whispers, his fingers tenderly brushing away a stray lock of hair from her perspiration-dampened brow, "It was just a nightmare, babe."

A shudder courses through Cleo's trembling frame as fragments of the nightmarish ordeal cling to her consciousness. The noxious stench of wet dog lingers, a phantom reminder of the God's sadistic game. She inhales deeply, seeking solace in the familiarity of Marc's presence, a sanctuary from the clutches of her torment. His voice, a lifeline, pulls Cleo further away from the nightmare's grasp. Gradually, she detaches herself from its clutches, feeling the tendrils of fear loosen their grip. Yet the residue of the God's malevolence still taints the air, a reminder of the battle waged within her subconscious.

The movies created within her mind are commonly frightening. She is no stranger to the realm of nightmares, though this one is... different. It bares a vague resemblance to those brought on by the amulet, yet holds a darker image, one tainted with death and despair.

As Cleo nestles closer to Marc, seeking refuge in his warmth, she becomes acutely aware of the lingering echoes of her torment. The room remains shrouded in an eerie stillness, as if the nightmare's presence still lingers in the shadows. A chill dances across her skin, sending a ripple of unease through her body. With a gentle touch, Marc intertwines his fingers with hers, his touch a lifeline anchoring her to the present.

"Breathe, Cleo," He whispers, his voice a soothing balm.

Following his guidance, Cleo draws in a slow, deep breath, allowing the air to fill her lungs. She holds it for a moment, feeling the tension build, and then releases it with a soft sigh. With each breath, she senses the lingering tendrils of fear dissipate, replaced by a renewed sense of peace. Marc's unwavering presence serves as a shield, protecting her from the lingering remnants of the nightmare.