She dreams...

.... of murder, of torment, of mutilation.

Blood is streaked through her dreams, glaring crimson through the night. She is repulsed, and yet revels in the river of gore.

Death is not to be feared, but welcomed. Pain... so much pain. Not just her own, but of those she loves. She sees it and feels nothing but a strange sense of elation at their sufferings distilled into her dreams.

She fears what she becomes, a Hyde wrested from her waking Jekyll. And yet, there is power. Such power she cannot resist. She needs to feel it fill her, strengthen her, infusing steel into her own blood. She drinks it in, glorying in its pulsing pungence.

Then she wakes.