In a single, suffocating, uninterrupted three-minute shot, Clío immerses herself in an internal monologue that settles scores with the darkness. Facing her is Fancy: a woman who shines on the surface but manipulates from the shadows, acting as if pain didn't exist. However, Clío's true psychological horror doesn't lie in her patient's toxicity, but in the suspicion gnawing at her chest: what if she, from her position of power as a therapist, is just as manipulative? A minimalist cinematic exercise on the weight of seeing oneself reflected in the abyss of another.