Cassandra McConnell's Perspective
A total mess.The most eclectic person you'd ever meet.Chaos in human form.
Those were the nicknames Cassandra heard most often throughout her life.Even her parents sometimes called her their "little mess"—a nickname she honestly found cute.
And to be fair, Cassandra didn't disagree.She could clearly see the chaos her life was made of.
Her tastes? A mix that could leave anyone dizzy.
First, there was fashion. Since childhood, she had been fascinated by the shine of fabrics, the colors, the impact of a well-chosen outfit. When her mother got her a chance to model on a runway, it was like falling into a magical world. Being on stage, under the lights, wearing beautiful clothes… Cassandra loved every second.
That's why she became a model.
But modeling alone was never enough.
Her love for fashion was real—but it wasn't her only love.
There was also something completely different: physics.Yes, physics. The perfect contradiction to glamorous dresses and high heels. Her father was a nuclear physicist, and from him she inherited something no runway could erase: an insatiable curiosity about how the world worked. How every particle fit together, how every invisible law dictated the rhythm of the universe.Mathematical models and complicated formulas fascinated Cassandra just as much as silk fabrics.
And that alone was enough to mark her as unusual—A model who also studied physics.Almost a walking paradox.
But it didn't stop there.
She had yet another love.Games.
Growing up surrounded by boy cousins, games were always her fun at every family gathering. Video games, board games—anything with competition, strategy, or simply the chance to laugh at someone else's loss.She grew up with a controller in her hands and never managed to let go. Gaming was as much a part of her as walking a runway or solving equations.
And when everyone around her thought three such different passions were already more than enough to fill a lifetime…
They wouldn't believe Cassandra if she admitted there was still one more.
A strange love.Or maybe a strange habit… if it could even be called love.
Because Cassandra liked to break things.
Not in a dangerous way.She wasn't some arsonist or a movie villain setting cities on fire just to watch the world burn with a maniacal laugh.
She would simply describe it as the opposite of those who loved to create.While painters and sculptors saw beauty in building shapes and breathing life into emptiness, Cassandra found fascination in the act of undoing.Destroying.
Watching as something split into pieces, as bonds snapped, as material melted into nothing. There was a strange poetry in it, a rhythm only she seemed to understand.
Of course, this wasn't something she went around telling people.
Most of her classmates already thought of her as "the weird one."
She herself admitted she was odd enough for someone living in society.
And she knew exactly how people would see her if this little habit went public:"Look, the redheaded model… a psycho."
She could already picture the social media posts.
That's why she always kept her "love" hidden in small rituals.Nothing major.A brand-new mug, bought on purpose, cracked little by little—fine lines first, then the final shatter against the floor.A piece of paper burned slowly in her parents' fireplace, watching the flames consume the fibers until they turned to ash.
Small destructive luxuries.Almost therapeutic.
No one ever noticed.No one would ever know.
But today… today felt different.
Cassandra felt something new bubbling under her skin, an electric nervousness she couldn't ignore.It was as if last night—those sixteen hours inside the Black Tower—had awakened that part of her stronger than ever before.
The crunch of goblin bones breaking.The crack of stone under spells.The glow of burning flesh.
All of it still vibrated inside her, like an echo.
And for the first time in a long while, Cassandra realized her little strange habit was more alive than it had ever been.
It started in the morning.
She was in the biochemistry lab, wearing a lab coat, eyes fixed on the slightest sign of the experiment that could define her master's degree. Test tubes lined up, plates, a carefully organized bench; the faint scent of solvents and reagents hung in the air like a promise of progress.
Cassandra observed the process with clinical interest.
And then, without warning, came the first intrusive thought.Hey, what if you made an explosive?
It was an absurd thought—and she dismissed it right away.
But her imagination didn't let go so easily. The scene lined up in her head like fast frames: beakers and flasks shattering on the floor, glass flying, droplets of solution scattering like chemical confetti. She could almost smell the metallic tang and hear the sharp crack of ceramic breaking. Her pulse quickened for a second—it was just an image, of course—but she had nearly given in.
Nearly.
Reality pulled her back.
Her bank account balance forced her sanity to return.
Exactly five dollars to her name, a stick of gum in her pocket.
The idea of paying for lab fines, explaining broken equipment, and covering cleanup costs was enough to freeze any wild impulse her mind suggested.
The beakers stayed safe, and the reagents remained in their bottles.
But the thoughts didn't stop. They whispered all day, a low, insistent chorus weaving through her tasks:
— In class, when the professor wrote formulas on the board, she felt the urge to imagine a crack running across the desks, the surface giving way to a sharp strike of her fist.— At lunch, she stared at the meat sizzling on the grill, the shine of the fat, and for an instant she considered letting it burn completely, just to watch the food turn into something unrecognizable.— In the afternoon, she had a runway show—silks, steps, cameras—and a voice from that same restless corner of her mind toyed with the idea of missing a step and brushing against a camera lens, watching the glass tremble, watching the viewfinder break.
Cassandra felt a new fear of her own thoughts.
And so the day went on, full of small battles against herself.
In the end, nothing but her imagination broke. The desk in the classroom stayed whole; the meat didn't turn to charcoal; the cameras gleamed intact during the show.
Still, Cassandra knew this was no ordinary day. Something inside her, awakened during the night in the Black Tower, seemed eager to rehearse bolder moves in the real world.
And she—always a lover of controlled messes and secret rituals—realized with a mix of worry and curiosity that she would have to keep an eye on this new noise inside her.
Or maybe… finally understand what exactly the Tower had awakened in her.