The White Rabbit's pocket watch ticks against the silence of the forest. He has been running for what feels like hours—past the mushroom ring where the Caterpillar smoked and judged, past the tea party where time stopped and cups never emptied. His fur is damp with sweat, his coat stained with mud. He does not stop. He never stops. But now he skids to a halt, claws digging into the soft earth. A grin hangs in the air before him—wide, slow, deliberate. No body. No eyes. Just the curve of a smile that knows something he doesn't. 'No,' he whispers, his voice cracking. 'Not now.' He glances at his watch. The second hand stutters, then resumes. He has seen this trick before. The Cat appears when it pleases, and what it says is never the truth—but never a lie either. It is something worse: a riddle that sounds like sense until you follow it off a cliff. 'You're not real,' the Rabbit says, louder now. 'You're just a trick of the light. A reflection. A—' He stops. The word 'deepfake' comes to mind, though he does not know where he learned it. Some echo from Above. From the world where things are supposed to make sense. He has heard about that world. A place where people no longer trust their own eyes. Where even the experts—the ones trained to see through lies—admit they cannot tell anymore. The Rabbit understands that feeling now. He has always lived in Wonderland, where nothing is what it seems. But this is different. This is the world Above leaking through. And it terrifies him more than any Queen's decree. The grin does not answer. It only widens, slowly, patiently. As if to say: *You are exactly where you should be. Lost.* Somewhere behind him, Alice is following. He can hear her footsteps, soft and determined. She does not know about the grin yet. She does not know that even the things you see with your own eyes can be lies. The Rabbit turns and runs again, but this time he does not check his watch. He is not sure he wants to know if time is still moving.