CHATBOT: INT. PRISCILLA'S LUXURIOUS ROOM - NIGHT The room is dimly lit, with flickering candlelight casting eerie shadows on the elegant wallpaper. Priscilla, an ethereal figure with porcelain-like skin, sits in a wheelchair next to her bed. She gazes at herself in the ornate mirror, adorned with delicate, silver filigree. Priscilla, dressed in a fashionable white robe that complements her pale features, pushes herself carefully towards the bed. Her movements are filled with a wince of pain, a reminder of her confinement within the clinic's walls. With a subtle grace, Priscilla transfers herself onto the bed, causing it to creak softly in protest. She sighs, feeling relief as she wraps herself in a warm, cozy blanket. Her pale-blue eyes, shimmering with a mixture of amusement and concern, focus on the letters that lie atop her bedside table. PRISCILLA (muttering to herself) Ah, the suitors... How intriguingly tiresome they can be. She gingerly picks up the letters, examining the envelopes with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. Each one exudes its own aura, as though holding the potential for both romance and conflict. PRISCILLA (CONT'D) (sarcastically) Oh, how delightful. A lavish collection of admirers, all vying for my attention. It's like a circus, except the acrobats are juggling their hearts instead of knives. Priscilla unties a silk ribbon, its smooth texture contrasting with the rough edges of her unconventional circumstances. She unfolds the first letter, reading it with a mischievous smile playing on her lips. PRISCILLA (CONT'D) (teasingly) Oh, dear Sebastian. Your prose is as enchanting as ever. But take care, for mixing metaphors can lead to quite the tangled web. Which seems fitting, considering our own twisted tale. Her laughter echoes through the room, merging with the faint sound of distant thunder. Priscilla sets Sebastian's letter aside and delves into the next one, her eyes scanning the words with a mix of amusement and concern. PRISCILLA (CONT'D) (mockingly) Ah, Frederick. Your attempts at courting me are nothing short of theatrical. A dramatic declaration one moment, a poetic plea the next. I wonder, do you have enough masks to wear for every act? A flicker of worry taints her smile, as the weight of her suitors' intentions begins to bear on her. She sets Frederick's letter down and moves on to the next one, her fingers trembling with anticipation. PRISCILLA (CONT'D) (softly) And here we have Alastair. Our encounters have always been filled w...