A cinematic close-up captures a faceless woman, deep in shadow. The camera peers through one of the mask's eyeholes, revealing the sharp, dark silhouette of the head of the shapeless, ghostly figure. Her face is a void—an endless, smooth, pitch-black nothingness where her features should be. Her hood has fallen back, revealing a bald, perfectly smooth scalp that gleams faintly in the dim light like polished obsidian. The ancient hood, once covering her, now hangs limp over her shoulders, its tattered fabric stitched with silver runes that flicker faintly like dying embers, nearly lost in the surrounding darkness. In her gloved hands, worn velvet clings to trembling fingers as she holds a porcelain mask—pale and cold, grotesque in its simplicity, shaped like a rabbit's face. The eerie smile is stretched unnaturally wide, too far, its eyes hollow and lifeless, staring into empty space. Cracks run along its cheeks like dried riverbeds, and the long ears—elongated and impossibly thin—stretch outward, standing out against the deep shadows. They twitch, almost alive in the stillness, their forms exaggerated in their height and delicacy, piercing the darkness like unsettling tendrils of bone. The camera focuses entirely on the mask, emphasizing the elongated, delicate ears, which loom large in the composition. Only sharp slivers of sickly blue light outline the mask’s edge, the hollow where her face should be, and the eerie, towering ears that seem to reach toward the unknown.