ARSHILA POV
The blade sinks into his arm before he can finish.
It happens fast.
Too fast.
My hand moves on its own, driving the knife forward with a force that surprises even me, the resistance barely there before it breaks through, the sound low and sickening in the silence.
"Where's the fucking psycho, you jerk!"
For a second, everything stops.
The blade goes in deeper than I expect, and blood spills instantly, dark and thick, soaking through his sleeve, dripping down his wrist and onto the polished floor.
My breath catches, sharp and uneven, my eyes locking on it like I can't look away, like my brain is trying to catch up with what I just did.
There is blood on me.
On my hands.
On my stupid floral pajama shirt.
Izar doesn't even flinch the way a normal person would. His body stiffens for half a second, but his face stays the same, calm, controlled, like pain is just another thing he knows how to handle.
"That hurts," he says evenly, his voice flat, almost bored, like I just inconvenienced him instead of stabbing him.
Something about that snaps me back into motion. My grip tightens on the knife as I yank it out, the movement messy, the blood following it in a quick, wet spill that splashes onto my wrist.
I flinch at the warmth, my stomach twisting, but I don't step back.
"I know you know where he is," I say, my voice shaking but sharp, the blade lifting again, this time higher, closer to his throat. "Tell me, or the next one goes here."
Izar's eyes flick to the knife, then back to my face, steady and unreadable, like he is measuring something I can't see.
"He's in the west wing," he says finally, without hesitation.
My jaw tightens. I stare at him for a second longer, then let out a harsh, breathless laugh that has no humor in it.
"Fucking loyal, aren't you?"
I don't wait for an answer.
I turn, the knife still in my hand, blood dripping from the blade now, leaving a thin trail behind me as I walk.
My legs feel wrong, unsteady, like they don't fully belong to me anymore, but I force them to move anyway, faster, sharper, like if I stop now, I won't start again.
The mansion feels bigger than it ever has.
Endless.
Cold.
Every step echoes too loudly, every shadow stretching longer as I move toward the west wing, the part of the house I was never meant to enter.
My grip tightens around the knife, my fingers slick now, my pulse loud in my ears as something unfamiliar crawls up my spine.
Fear.
Real fear.
Not the kind I felt before.
This is different.
This is walking straight toward something I know is worse than anything I have already seen.
I reach the door.
The snake-handled door.
It stands there like it always does, dark, silent, untouched. Every time I tried to open it before, the sensor above it would beep, sharp and warning, stopping me before I could even touch it.
But tonight—
It's slightly open.
My breath stutters.
For a second, I just stand there, staring at the gap, something cold sliding under my skin as realization settles in slow and heavy.
He left it open.
For me.
Like an invitation.
Or a trap.
"Fuck…" I whisper under my breath, but my hand still lifts, pushing the door open fully.
It moves without resistance.
The second I step inside, the air changes.
Colder.
Heavier.
The hallway behind me disappears as the door shuts on its own with a quiet click, sealing me in before I can even think about turning back.
There is no polished marble here.
No luxury.
Only raw stone and steel.
A narrow path stretches ahead, sloping downward, the walls rough, unfinished, the lights dim and placed low, casting long shadows that move with me, stretching and twisting like something alive.
Every step echoes.
Too loud.
Too sharp.
The deeper I go, the heavier the air feels, pressing against my chest, making it harder to breathe, like the place itself is rejecting me.
Or testing me.
At the end of the path, there is another door.
Glass.
Dark.
Almost black.
I step closer, my reflection faint in it, distorted, unfamiliar. For a second, I think I see movement behind it, something large shifting in the shadows, something that doesn't belong in a place like this.
My fingers tighten around the knife.
Then I push it open.
The space beyond steals the breath from my lungs.
It's not a room.
It's something else entirely.
Massive trees rise up from deep soil, their roots twisting through the ground, disappearing into darkness above where the ceiling should be.
Water moves somewhere to my left, the sound low and constant, a waterfall. The air is damp here, colder, alive in a way that makes my skin prickle.
It looks like a wilderness.
But it's controlled.
Built.
Owned.
"What the fuck…" I whisper, my voice barely there as I take a step forward, then another, my eyes moving over everything, trying to understand something that doesn't make sense.
How much does he have to spend to build something like this?
How far does his control actually go?
The knife feels heavier in my hand now.
Or maybe it's just me.
My blood is still dripping.
I can feel it sliding down my wrist, cold now, sticky, grounding me in the worst possible way.
I move deeper.
Then I see it.
A darker section ahead, where the light barely reaches, where the shadows gather thicker, heavier.
I step into it slowly.
And then—
I stop.
Because he is there.
Zayan sits in the center of the space, on a massive single-seat couch that looks like a throne carved out of darkness itself.
His posture is relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, one arm resting lazily against the side, like he has been waiting, like this is exactly where I was always meant to end up.
The dim light catches his face just enough.
His eyes find mine immediately.
His eyes find mine immediately.
And something in me snaps.
A sharp, bitter scoff rips out of me, too loud in the heavy silence, my grip tightening around the knife as I take another step forward, then another, my anger burning hotter than the fear crawling under my skin.
"What are you?" I spit, my voice shaking but cutting through the space anyway. "Playing God and Batman at the same time?"
My laugh is harsh, empty, echoing off the stone like something broken. "A whole damn forest and waterfall inside your mansion? What is this, Tarzan now?"
I gesture wildly around me, the knife slicing through the air, catching the dim light for a second before it disappears again.
"You fucking murderer."
The word lands heavy.
He doesn't move.
Not even a twitch.
He just watches me.
That same stillness.
That same control.
Like I am the one performing for him now.
Rage spikes sharper, hotter.
"You think you're smart?" I push forward, my voice rising, unstable, my chest heaving as everything spills out too fast to stop. "You think sending me that CCTV makes you untouchable?"
Nothing.
No reaction.
No denial.
No anger.
Just those dark eyes locked on me like I am something he owns.
My hand shakes harder now, but I lift the knife anyway, pointing it straight at him, the tip unsteady but aimed at his chest.
"How the hell do you do it?" My voice cracks, but I don't stop. "How do you just sit there like this is nothing?"
Still nothing.
"You killed him." The words come out lower now, rougher, dragged out of me. "You killed that man like it meant nothing, like he was just another thing to get rid of."
I take another step closer, my breath uneven, my entire body wired too tight.
"And don't even try to pretend this is your first time," I snap, my eyes burning into his. "What is it now? Fifty?" My laugh comes out sharp, unstable. "More than fifty people in five years?"
He doesn't blink.
Doesn't move.
Doesn't even breathe differently.
"You're the fucking vigilante, aren't you?" I press, my voice dropping into something darker, more accusing. "The one everyone whispers about like some ghost cleaning up the city."
My grip tightens painfully around the knife.
"The supreme leader of the Black Wraiths."
The name hangs in the air.
Heavy.
Dangerous.
Real.
"And I swear," I say, my voice trembling now but sharp enough to cut, "I will be the reason you get dragged out of this place and hung by the laws you think you're above."
Still—
Nothing.
Not a word.
Not a flicker.
Not even a damn reaction in his eyes.
It's worse than anything he could have said.
"Say something!" I shout, my voice breaking as it echoes violently through the space. "Say something, you fucking psycho!"
The silence stretches.
And then—
A sound.
Low.
Deep.
A growl that doesn't belong to him.
My body jerks before I even process it, my head snapping toward the darkness behind him, my breath catching so hard it hurts.
Another sound follows.
Heavier this time.
Closer.
My eyes strain against the shadows, my heart slamming violently against my ribs as something shifts back there, something large, something alive.
Then—
Two glowing eyes appear.
Bright.
Unnatural in the dark.
My grip on the knife falters.
My breath stops.
The shape moves forward slowly, stepping out of the shadows with a silent, terrifying grace that makes my entire body lock in place.
And then I see it.
A black panther.