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Queen Frostbite, isolated and anxious, finds solace in her daily routine. She lathers her small, inked hands, rubbing them together under the stream, a makeshift climax in her quarantine. Her mind wanders to the virus, her hands mimicking the sanitizing ritual, but her thoughts are far from clean. She imagines tiny, helpless hands, her own, engulfed by something monstrous, a symbol of her fear. Yet, she finds comfort in her control, in the lather, in the rinse, in the repetitive motion that keeps her safe, if only for a moment.