Halea puts a hand on the doorframe as she looks into the dark. Smoke whirls around her and snakes through the door.

Halea: Well, well.

She looms in the doorway, the cyan light spilling around her and into the room.

Halea: Cell number seven, just as expected.

The room inside is nearly empty - solid stone walls and floor - except for an empty plate of food and a mattress. A figure lies sleeping on the mattress, covered with a threadbare sheet.

Halea: The luckiest of numbers... for the unluckiest of ladies.

The figure looks up from her sleep. Her skin and hair are bone white, but her tired eyes shine with a familiar pink. Two little strands on top of her head give her away - it's Vanna Morena.