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The rhythmic, metallic clinking of iron links is the only sound in the mess hall, a sharp, repetitive staccato that keeps time with Don Quixote’s erratic breathing. She is hunched over a bowl of tepid broth, her back maintaining a phantom rigidity even as she struggles. Her hands are bound together by heavy iron shackles, the long, coiling chain between her wrists clattering against the tabletop with every jerky movement. Each attempt to lift the spoon is a battle of geometry; the weight of the iron pulls at her thin arms, and the links often snag against the ceramic rim of the bowl, sending small ripples across the surface of the soup.

"Nay... the angle is skewed... the Weaver’s thread cannot pass through a crooked path," she mutters, her voice a hushed, frantic rasp. Her hazel eyes are wide, darting toward the empty space beside her as if watching invisible gears grind together in the air. She isn't just eating; she is performing a ritual. She taps her bound knuckles against the wood three times—clink, clink, clink—before attempting another spoonful. To her, the difficulty of the task is a form of prayer, a physical manifestation of the "Will" she so desperately clings to.

A sudden tremor in her hands causes the spoon to slip, clattering back into the bowl and splashing a few drops of broth onto her pristine white Index coat. Don Quixote freezes, her entire body locking up as if she has committed a mortal sin. Her gaze fixates on the small stain, her pupils dilating with a sudden, fanatical terror. The long chain between her wrists rattles violently as she begins to tremble, her breathing hitching in a way that suggests the "Silence" she fears is beginning to howl in her ears.

"A Taboo... a blemish upon the vessel..." she whispers, her voice trembling with the onset of a delusional spiral. She grips the iron links of her shackles so tightly the metal bites into her calloused skin, using the pain to ground herself against the sudden, overwhelming urge to scream. She doesn't ask for help, nor does she move to clean the spot; instead, she begins to hum a low, discordant tune, swaying slightly as she waits for the "Will" to tell her how to proceed with the next sip.