cherii pt 2

You hated unanswered questions.

Unfortunately, your life had become one.

The file sat on your desk.

You had moved it three times.

First to a locked drawer.

Then to a filing cabinet.

Then to a shelf on the opposite side of the office.

Every attempt lasted less than an hour before you found yourself staring at it again.

The folder remained exactly where you'd left it.

Quiet.

Unassuming.

A simple stack of paper capable of ruining your week.

Your month.

Possibly your entire life.

You exhaled sharply and rubbed your eyes.

Across the room, rain tapped softly against the office windows.

Fontaine's skies had been grey for days.

Appropriate.

The page rested open before you.

Your name.

The date.

The words beneath it.

DECEASED.

No matter how many times you read it, nothing changed.

No hidden messages appeared.

No clues emerged.

The document offered little information about your manner of death.

Only the certainty that you would die.

You hated certainty almost as much as unanswered questions.

Because certainty encouraged complacency.

People stopped asking why.

Stopped investigating.

Stopped fighting.

The moment someone decided an outcome was inevitable, they had already lost.

And you had no intention of losing to a piece of paper.

A knock sounded at the door.

You looked up.

"Come in."

The door opened.

A courier stepped inside.

An official court messenger.

Young, nervous. It wasn't uncommon for people to feel a little unnerved around the heavy presence of a detective.

The poor man looked as though he'd rather be anywhere else.

You couldn't blame him.

Rumors surrounding the investigation had spread far beyond the people officially involved.

Nobody knew the details.

Everyone knew something was wrong.

The messenger held out an envelope.

"For you."

You accepted it.

"Thank you."

He nodded.

Then immediately left.

Not even attempting conversation.

Interesting.

You waited until the door clicked shut before examining the seal.

Not a court insignia.

Not the Palais Mermonia.

The Fortress of Meropide.

You stared.

Then blinked.

Then stared again.

"...What?"

Carefully, you broke the seal.

Inside sat a single sheet.

The message was short.

Almost annoyingly so.

"Investigator.

Your presence is required at the Fortress of Meropide regarding the ongoing records investigation.

Transportation has been arranged.

Do not decline.

—The Duke"

You read it twice.

Then a third time.

A laugh escaped before you could stop it.

Not because it was funny.

Because of the wording.

Do not decline.

Not requested.

Not invited.

Not even summoned.

Simply informed.

As though the decision had already been made.

You set the paper down.

Then immediately picked it back up.

The Fortress of Meropide had remained mostly uninvolved throughout the investigation.

At least publicly.

You knew reports had been sent there.

You knew Wriothesley had received copies. Who within the court system of Fontaine hadn't?

What you didn't know was why he suddenly wanted to speak with you.

Or why he apparently felt confident enough to order your attendance.

You folded the letter.

Slipped it into your coat.

And began gathering your things.

If nothing else, perhaps someone beneath the sea had answers.

—

The journey took most of the afternoon.

You spent it reviewing notes.

Again.

The pages had become familiar companions.

Victim statements.

Witness accounts.

Timelines.

Evidence logs.

Predicted crimes.

Completed crimes.

All perfectly aligned.

No deviations.

No mistakes.

No failures.

The files had never once been wrong.

That fact bothered you more than the prediction of your own death.

Human beings made mistakes.

Witnesses lied.

Evidence vanished.

Investigations failed.

Perfection was impossible.

Yet somehow the records achieved it every time.

A prediction machine disguised as paperwork.

The thought made your skin crawl.

By sunset, the ocean stretched endlessly around the transport vessel.

Ahead, the great mechanical structure of the Fortress could be seen underwater.

Massive.

Cold.

Unwelcoming.

The prison looked less like a building and more like an industrial beast waiting beneath the waves.

You had visited before.

Only briefly.

Even then, the place had unsettled you.

Not because it was dangerous.

Because it felt isolated.

A world entirely separate from Fontaine.

Down here, the laws of the surface seemed distant.

Muted.

The vessel docked.

You disembarked.

The familiar metal walkways echoed beneath your footsteps.

Workers moved throughout the fortress.

Prisoners carried supplies.

Guards monitored operations.

Everything appeared ordinary.

And yet every person you passed seemed to know exactly who you were.

Some glanced away immediately.

Others stared.

A few whispered.

Wonderful.

The rumors had arrived before you had.

A receptionist greeted you near the administrative offices.

"Investigator (Name)."

You nodded.

"I was expected."

"Of course."

She stood.

"The Duke is waiting."

Naturally.

Not "will be waiting."

Actively waiting.

You were beginning to suspect the Fortress suffered from a chronic inability to phrase things normally.

The receptionist led you through several corridors.

Eventually she stopped before a large office door.

"Inside."

You thanked her, then entered.

The room was warm.

Unexpectedly so.

Bookshelves lined the walls.

Documents occupied several desks.

A kettle rested near one corner.

The atmosphere felt more like a study than an office.

And seated behind a desk was the man responsible for dragging you beneath the sea.

Wriothesley looked up from a report.

Sharp eyes met yours.

Calm.

Observant.

Entirely too amused.

As though he'd already learned something about you that you hadn't.

"You came."

You stared.

Then slowly crossed your arms.

"I mean, your letter said not to decline."

A pause.

Then the corner of his mouth twitched.

"...Fair point."

His smile vanished almost immediately.

His gaze shifted.

Landing briefly on the satchel hanging at your side.

The one containing the file.

The one containing your death sentence.

When he spoke again, his voice was noticeably quieter.

"Then let's skip introductions."

The room suddenly felt smaller.

Wriothesley folded his hands atop the desk.

And for the first time since entering, you noticed the stack of folders beside him.

Court records.

Dozens of them.

Perhaps hundreds.

More than you'd ever seen gathered in one place.

His expression remained calm.

But something about it had changed.

The amusement was gone.

Replaced by concern.

Real concern.

The sort that made experienced investigators pay attention.

"You've spent months trying to discover where the files come from," he said.

You nodded.

"And you've found nothing."

You nodded again.

His gaze hardened.

"Good."

You frowned.

Good? How is that good?

That wasn't the response you'd expected.

Not even remotely.

Wriothesley leaned back slightly.

The movement was casual.

The look in his eyes wasn't.

"Because if your investigation had found the answer already..."

Silence settled between you.

Then he finished quietly.

"...you would've been dead long before that document predicted."

For the first time since receiving the file, you felt genuine fear crawl down your spine.

final note: wowie i actually really love writing this series. a LOT. huge thanks to my beta-reader/editor @lonelykrow this rough draft was originally ROUGH. thanks to @opalescentangels for outlining the chapter before i write it!

You hated unanswered questions.

Unfortunately, your life had become one.

The file sat on your desk.

You had moved it three times.

First to a locked drawer.

Then to a filing cabinet.

Then to a shelf on the opposite side of the office.

Every attempt lasted less than an hour before you found yourself staring at it again.

The folder remained exactly where you'd left it.

Quiet.

Unassuming.

A simple stack of paper capable of ruining your week.

Your month.

Possibly your entire life.

You exhaled sharply and rubbed your eyes.

Across the room, rain tapped softly against the office windows.

Fontaine's skies had been grey for days.

Appropriate.

The page rested open before you.

Your name.

The date.

The words beneath it.

DECEASED.

No matter how many times you read it, nothing changed.

No hidden messages appeared.

No clues emerged.

The document offered little information about your manner of death.

Only the certainty that you would die.

You hated certainty almost as much as unanswered questions.

Because certainty encouraged complacency.

People stopped asking why.

Stopped investigating.

Stopped fighting.

The moment someone decided an outcome was inevitable, they had already lost.

And you had no intention of losing to a piece of paper.

A knock sounded at the door.

You looked up.

"Come in."

The door opened.

A courier stepped inside.

An official court messenger.

Young, nervous. It wasn't uncommon for people to feel a little unnerved around the heavy presence of a detective.

The poor man looked as though he'd rather be anywhere else.

You couldn't blame him.

Rumors surrounding the investigation had spread far beyond the people officially involved.

Nobody knew the details.

Everyone knew something was wrong.

The messenger held out an envelope.

"For you."

You accepted it.

"Thank you."

He nodded.

Then immediately left.

Not even attempting conversation.

Interesting.

You waited until the door clicked shut before examining the seal.

Not a court insignia.

Not the Palais Mermonia.

The Fortress of Meropide.

You stared.

Then blinked.

Then stared again.

"...What?"

Carefully, you broke the seal.

Inside sat a single sheet.

The message was short.

Almost annoyingly so.

"Investigator.

Your presence is required at the Fortress of Meropide regarding the ongoing records investigation.

Transportation has been arranged.

Do not decline.

—The Duke"

You read it twice.

Then a third time.

A laugh escaped before you could stop it.

Not because it was funny.

Because of the wording.

Do not decline.

Not requested.

Not invited.

Not even summoned.

Simply informed.

As though the decision had already been made.

You set the paper down.

Then immediately picked it back up.

The Fortress of Meropide had remained mostly uninvolved throughout the investigation.

At least publicly.

You knew reports had been sent there.

You knew Wriothesley had received copies. Who within the court system of Fontaine hadn't?

What you didn't know was why he suddenly wanted to speak with you.

Or why he apparently felt confident enough to order your attendance.

You folded the letter.

Slipped it into your coat.

And began gathering your things.

If nothing else, perhaps someone beneath the sea had answers.

—

The journey took most of the afternoon.

You spent it reviewing notes.

Again.

The pages had become familiar companions.

Victim statements.

Witness accounts.

Timelines.

Evidence logs.

Predicted crimes.

Completed crimes.

All perfectly aligned.

No deviations.

No mistakes.

No failures.

The files had never once been wrong.

That fact bothered you more than the prediction of your own death.

Human beings made mistakes.

Witnesses lied.

Evidence vanished.

Investigations failed.

Perfection was impossible.

Yet somehow the records achieved it every time.

A prediction machine disguised as paperwork.

The thought made your skin crawl.

By sunset, the ocean stretched endlessly around the transport vessel.

Ahead, the great mechanical structure of the Fortress could be seen underwater.

Massive.

Cold.

Unwelcoming.

The prison looked less like a building and more like an industrial beast waiting beneath the waves.

You had visited before.

Only briefly.

Even then, the place had unsettled you.

Not because it was dangerous.

Because it felt isolated.

A world entirely separate from Fontaine.

Down here, the laws of the surface seemed distant.

Muted.

The vessel docked.

You disembarked.

The familiar metal walkways echoed beneath your footsteps.

Workers moved throughout the fortress.

Prisoners carried supplies.

Guards monitored operations.

Everything appeared ordinary.

And yet every person you passed seemed to know exactly who you were.

Some glanced away immediately.

Others stared.

A few whispered.

Wonderful.

The rumors had arrived before you had.

A receptionist greeted you near the administrative offices.

"Investigator (Name)."

You nodded.

"I was expected."

"Of course."

She stood.

"The Duke is waiting."

Naturally.

Not "will be waiting."

Actively waiting.

You were beginning to suspect the Fortress suffered from a chronic inability to phrase things normally.

The receptionist led you through several corridors.

Eventually she stopped before a large office door.

"Inside."

You thanked her, then entered.

The room was warm.

Unexpectedly so.

Bookshelves lined the walls.

Documents occupied several desks.

A kettle rested near one corner.

The atmosphere felt more like a study than an office.

And seated behind a desk was the man responsible for dragging you beneath the sea.

Wriothesley looked up from a report.

Sharp eyes met yours.

Calm.

Observant.

Entirely too amused.

As though he'd already learned something about you that you hadn't.

"You came."

You stared.

Then slowly crossed your arms.

"I mean, your letter said not to decline."

A pause.

Then the corner of his mouth twitched.

"...Fair point."

His smile vanished almost immediately.

His gaze shifted.

Landing briefly on the satchel hanging at your side.

The one containing the file.

The one containing your death sentence.

When he spoke again, his voice was noticeably quieter.

"Then let's skip introductions."

The room suddenly felt smaller.

Wriothesley folded his hands atop the desk.

And for the first time since entering, you noticed the stack of folders beside him.

Court records.

Dozens of them.

Perhaps hundreds.

More than you'd ever seen gathered in one place.

His expression remained calm.

But something about it had changed.

The amusement was gone.

Replaced by concern.

Real concern.

The sort that made experienced investigators pay attention.

"You've spent months trying to discover where the files come from," he said.

You nodded.

"And you've found nothing."

You nodded again.

His gaze hardened.

"Good."

You frowned.

Good? How is that good?

That wasn't the response you'd expected.

Not even remotely.

Wriothesley leaned back slightly.

The movement was casual.

The look in his eyes wasn't.

"Because if your investigation had found the answer already..."

Silence settled between you.

Then he finished quietly.

"...you would've been dead long before that document predicted."

For the first time since receiving the file, you felt genuine fear crawl down your spine.

final note: wowie i actually really love writing this series. a LOT. huge thanks to my beta-reader/editor @lonelykrow this rough draft was originally ROUGH. thanks to @opalescentangels for outlining the chapter before i write it!

The first file arrived on a Tuesday.

Nobody noticed.

That, in hindsight, was perhaps the most unsettling part.

Not the impossible contents. Not the prediction that would later come true. Not the panic that would eventually spread through Fontaine's justice system.

No.

The frightening thing was how ordinary it looked.

It sat among dozens of other case reports on an archivist's desk. Stamped. Signed. Properly formatted. Filed exactly where it belonged.

Case Number 47291.

Petty theft.

Defendant convicted.

Sentence carried out.

The matter should have ended there.

Except the crime had not happened yet.

The defendant would not commit the theft until three days later.

By the time someone noticed the discrepancy, the case had already been archived.

Most assumed it was a clerical mistake.

Fontaine processed thousands of legal documents every week. Errors happened.

The second file arrived shortly after.

Then a third.

Then a fourth.

The mistakes became harder to ignore.

Each document detailed crimes that had not yet occurred.

Every suspect existed.

Every witness was real.

Every location matched.

And every prediction came true.

Exactly.

Word spread quietly among court officials.

Then quiet became urgent.

Urgency became panic.

The Court of Fontaine prided itself on certainty.

Evidence.

Logic.

Reason.

The truth could always be found if one followed the facts.

At least, that was what people liked to believe.

Unfortunately, facts were becoming increasingly difficult to explain.

Which was how the investigation landed on your desk.

You still remember the day the assignment arrived.

The stack of files had been dropped onto your workspace with enough force to shake your inkwell.

Thirty-seven cases.

Thirty-seven impossible documents.

And a single note attached to the top.

“Investigate sources immediately.”

You'd spent years working as an investigator for Fontaine's legal system.

Missing persons.

Fraud.

Conspiracies.

Murders.

Kidnappings.

Sometimes even worse.

You'd built a reputation for solving cases other people considered impossible.

You trusted evidence.

You trusted witnesses.

You trusted the simple belief that every mystery had an answer.

The files challenged all three.

No ink could be traced.

No author could be identified.

No witness remembered creating them.

The paper itself appeared entirely ordinary.

You examined every page personally.

Nothing.

No hidden messages.

No coded markings.

No clues.

Only accurate predictions.

One after another.

You hated that.

Not because it frightened you.

Because it didn't make sense.

And anything that didn't make sense demanded investigation.

So you began where any detective would.

You interviewed suspects.

You questioned clerks.

You reviewed security reports.

You searched archives.

Weeks passed.

Then months.

More and more files kept appearing.

The answers did not.

The deeper you dug, the stranger the pattern became.

The documents never predicted insignificant events.

They focused on heavily violent crimes.

Murders.

Disappearances.

Domestic abuse.

Moments where lives changed forever.

Almost as if something—or even someone—was documenting history before it happened.

You were still trying to prove that theory wrong when the seventh file arrived.

The moment it appeared, every official involved in the investigation was summoned.

The folder was sealed.

Unmarked.

No origin.

No record of delivery.

Exactly like the others.

You were present when it was opened.

The room felt unnaturally quiet.

Nobody spoke.

Nobody moved.

A senior archivist broke the seal.

Inside was a single page.

No crime.

No suspect.

No witness statements.

Just a name.

Your name.

For several seconds, you simply stared.

You were convinced you were reading it incorrectly.

You weren't.

Beneath your name sat a date.

Six months from today.

And beneath the date, written in flawless official script:

DECEASED.

CAUSE: BLUNT FORCE HEAD TRAUMA.

MECHANISM: CEREBRAL CONTUSION.

MANNER: UNDETERMINED, STILL UNDER INVESTIGATION.

The room remained silent.

Someone dropped a pen.

Another official quietly excused themselves and never returned.

You couldn't blame them. You don't know how you haven't left the room yet. You've just heard about your own death, months before it has even happened.

For the first time since the investigation began, you found yourself struggling to breathe.

Not because you believed it.

Because you didn't.

You refused to.

A document could not decide whether you lived or died.

A piece of paper could not determine your fate.

There had to be an explanation.

A culprit.

A source.

A reason.

And even if there wasn't—

You intended to find one anyway.

The file was removed from public record before sunrise.

By noon, copies had reached the highest levels of Fontaine's justice system.

By evening, one final copy had been delivered far beneath the nation's waters.

To the Fortress of Meropide.

Its administrator read the report in silence.

Read it a second time.

Then a third.

When he finally set the page down, his expression had become unusually serious.

A relatively rare thing for Wriothesley.

The report contained hundreds of names.

Thousands, perhaps.

Yet only one seemed to concern him.

Yours.

Anyone would be able to recognize the name of a helpful investigator. Especially one who works on so many cases. That's besides the point, to Wriothesley, though.

What sticks out is your name in such an extreme case.

Because if the court truly knew the future—

Then someone needed to stop it before yours arrived.

final note: huge huge huge thanks to @opalescentangels once again for the INSANE amount of work she has helped with on this work! this went from an outline to a draft in about 48 hours thanks to her. anyways, i really hope this is an enjoyable read for those who are reading this! lots of work has been put into it!

There are more than 30 Ana's.

Ana runs multiple accounts and uses them in ways that range from embarrassing to genuinely harmful.

One that I do feel is a mix of both is the @lyneyhatersdni blog. Ana claims this is her ('ex') boyfriend… she's the boyfriend.

Someone told me that before the account was fully set up, the following list and recently liked posts were publicly visible (which is just a default setting Tumblr uses).

Every liked post was content from Ana, Lilac, and Karma.

The account types exactly like Ana's; she tries to switch her typing style on it, but she slips… a lot.

I always thought it was weird when I first found that account, that it's rarely active.

That only Ana responds/likes my comments if I interact with them??

And what made my assumption feel far too true is this post she made:

This is a self-report if I've ever seen one. And why does this matter beyond just being weird??

This account was used for publicly 'dating' Ana, complimenting her, calling her pet names, having entire conversations with her in the comments of her post. She is having a relationship with herself in front of everyone.

And here's the infamous conversation she had with herself when she posted "im gonna kms" on her main, where lyneyhatersdni shows up in the comments to comfort her. She is roleplaying emotional support from a person who does not exist.

He is only online when she needs him to be (like making that "ana won't be online" post or interacting with herself). He never used it outside of using it for ana. They always happen to be online at the same time, and now she's active on his account bc shes "going to be offline for a long while" and is addicted, so that's what she uses right now.

But it gets worse than just beyond fake dating.

'lyneyhatersdni' was the account behind the anonymous hate messages that Lilac received on her old blog. Lilac's old account (scaraobsession) is now deactivated, so those specific asks are gone, but they were horrible nonetheless.

Lilac had to turn off anonymous asks entirely because of the harassment, and Ana had the audacity to reblog Lilac's post about it, acting like she was defending her.

Ana sent anonymous hate to her own (ex) close friend. And then publicly positioned herself as the one protecting her from it.

That's fucked up. What's more fucked up? If this 'boyfriend' is real, dating your friend's bully is fucked up.

She also very, very likely sends herself anonymous requests. Some requests are for engagement on her blog; others are hate-directed at her(self). She literally discovered the feature publicly on her blog, as seen in the image with the anonymous hate at the top. The proof is all there.

The vent account(s).

Ana has had multiple vent accounts in the past; her newest was leaked recently. What was on it was absolutely disturbing.

One of the very disgusting things that stood out on this account was the posts written as conversations between herself and what she frames as an internal 'voice,' using brackets to distinguish it. In these posts, "the voice" says things like 'i hope they die', 'i hope one of them dies', and other… odd things you'll see below.

Ana responds back to "the voice" as herself, pushing back mildly, but she's the one writing all of it. She typed every word, fantasizing about (ex) friends' deaths.

And in the tags? She writes things like "these r kinda just like the thoughts I don't agree with, but r still there" and "pls know that's not actually me." She tagged her own death wishes toward her friends with a disclaimer. As if that makes it fine. As if hitting post and putting it on the internet is somehow not a choice she made.

These are all directed towards both Karma and Lilac. Ana's always been jealous of Karma, hated them. When they were all a trio, Ana would constantly leave Karma out on purpose; she tried to kick Karma out of the friend group, but ended up kicking herself out instead.

She crashed out on Lilac once, called her a slutty b*tch, over Lilac saying "plsplspls" to Karma. This is exactly what this post is about, and this is on one of Ana's yapping side blogs' accounts.

She treats her own spiraling as a performance and then demands that other people warn her before they vent.

Both Lilac and Karma found her recent vent account and reblogged it. This also isn't the first time Ana's vent account got leaked; you'll see in the image below.

After being caught, Ana deactivated her recent vent account (belovedofbarbatos), and ranted on her main before deleting and then making an announcement post saying she'd be offline for a very long time. Her ass is too chronically online for that, and she's still active on her @windspokenwhispers sideblog.

She only cares that she got caught.

Ana and minors.

This is the part that made me decide I needed to post this.

Someone sent Ana an anonymous ask saying: "Am I allowed to join in on the flirting if I'm 16?" Her response: "YUHP!! Just clarify that at first and make sure it's nothing tooooo suggestive, ur still underage! however in some countries that's legal, and I don't mind harmless stuff."

When someone called her out for flirting with a minor while being almost 21, she defended herself by saying she's only ever said things like "IMMA KISS YOU" and "I WANNA CUDDLE" and that those are platonic. The tag's on the post don't help the accusations.

On her recently deactivated vent account, she interacted with an anonymous person who said they were 15. Ana's response? She doesn't mind.

She doesn't fucking mind that a 15-year-old is looking at a vent blog that talks about serious topics, including self-harm.

When she started getting called out for this, she posted: "no becuz why am i getting pedo allegations" with tags about how she's just showing "platonic affection."

Ana is nearing 21, and she posts content not safe for minors while actively seeking new mutuals with anyone of any age (unless they're under 11, because that's her minimum apparently).

Why am I posting this?? It's a community concern.

Because Ana is an extrovert. She's outgoing and chatty, and she comes across as friendly and fun at first. She reaches out to people in the Genshin writing community, and if you're new to the community or shy, that attention feels good. That's exactly why it's dangerous.

The people who chose to interact with her deserve to know that the person behind the friendly posts has a vent account where she wishes death on her once closest friends. That she sent her own ex-best friend anonymous hate and then pretended to protect her from it. That she tells minors she doesn't care about their age.

I also want to make something very clear: Lilac and Karma are the victims in this situation. Both of them are people Ana called her best friends, while privately writing about wanting them dead. Lilac was harassed by Ana's alt account. Both of them were targeted on the vent account. They've already dealt with enough, leave them alone.

All of the evidence in the following is from AFTER I blocked ana, and all of it was publicly posted on tumblr. I don't wanna include conversations that happened in dms since they took place in a private context and weren’t intended to be public.

Let this be a cautionary tale.

On April 17th I posted this, talking about how I'm blocking one of my former mutuals (Ana):

You don't need to read the entire post but to summarize I said I'll block her for my mental health and that I have no negative wishes for her and that I will delete any hate about her. Basically going the pacifist route.

I thought me blocking her would be the end of it. I was wrong.

On April 25th I replied to my inboxes:

There's two noteworthy asks, one from a now deactivated alt Account from Ana (she loves making those) trying to interact with me under another name after I blocked her, which should have been a clear boundary.

Another one from an anon, basically wishing us the best and being kind overall. My reply was something along the lines of "I'm doing well and I hope Ana is doing well too and isn't too hurt".

She made an angry sounding post on her now deleted alt. Over me wishing her the best despite our differences. The bigger offense is her trying to interact with me after I set a clear boundary by blocking her. Both is just weird overall, so I reblogged her post basically telling her to stop talking to me and to stop insulting me. (you can see that reblog in maddies first post already so I won't add it here)

I continued to mind my business while Ana continued being obsessive. This has been going on for over a month so I will just put some noteworthy examples:

She wrote a poem? fanfiction? something? about me:

I think it's obvious enough from the account name that this was her. I think it's also obvious enough that this is about me. Besides this just being creepy as fuck, she also put a censored version of my real name there, something I told her to keep private. This genuinely made me feel scared/ threatened.

Some more examples of her being obsessive and bad-faithed towards me or just generally harmful on her alt account:

The latest post before she deleted the alt was two days old. She has been obsessing over me for over a month after I blocked her. I don't need anyone's pity, my own mental health is fine. The only reason I'm sharing this is to show the community that Ananeuvii has very concerning tendencies that can't be ignored.

I'm just begging all minors who see this to stay away from this person and unstable adults in general.

Here's a list of all of Ana's alt accounts that I could find, in case anyone wants a block list:

confirmed: @ananeuvii @windspokenwhispers @ananiel-luvs @ananmethyst @hearts4tartaglia @randomahhananiel @lyney2026 @lyneyscumlicker @lyneysonlywife @irllyneytrust @lvrgirl-official @lyneyreblogs @dahlia2026 @starlightseasx @ana-energy @seafoamsponge @is-lyney-peak @teraskeretao @matarikiputaiao

suspected: @lyneyhatersdni (fake bf) @lyneyloverz @prettiestlesbianx (fake haters)