Steam wrapped the room like a gentle fog.
The bathtub was full, the water slightly foamy, scented with something sweet and fresh, almost childlike.
A violent contrast to the knot twisting in Naiara's stomach.
The three blonde women moved in silence, precise, automatic.
Same slender hands, same gestures, same empty expressions. They looked like clones.
"The water is at the right temperature," said the one who always spoke for the others.
Her voice was flat, polite.
"The Master wants you to relax."
Naiara bit the inside of her cheek.
How many times had she heard that word in this house?
The Master wants you to do this. The Master wants you to wear that. The Master wants you to breathe, but only if he decides so…
The words echoed in her mind, acidic.
She moved toward the tub, letting her fingers glide through the water. Warm. Enveloping.
Almost insulting, being treated like a porcelain doll in a place that smelled of prison.
The blonde handed her a towel, as if following a strict protocol.
"You may soak as long as you want. The Master set no time."
That title burned on Naiara's tongue even before she spoke.
"The Master," she repeated with a hint of sarcasm. "Do you know what he told me?"
The blonde, the one who always kept her back a little straighter than the others, froze, almost imperceptibly.
"The Master… spoke to you?"
Naiara held her gaze.
"He told me that when they come to save me… he will let me choose."
Silence. The steam seemed to freeze midair.
The other two blondes exchanged a quick glance, barely there.
But the one who spoke… stopped entirely.
Her usually neutral face cracked.
A faint line of surprise, almost fear, split her perfect mask.
"Choose?" she repeated, as if the word didn't exist in their world. "The Master… never lets anyone choose."
Her voice was low, and it was clear she shouldn't have said it.
Something tightened in Naiara's chest.
"And yet he did," she insisted. "He said he'll make me choose. Leo. Damian. Him."
Her throat closed. "Even though I don't even know if he is truly an option."
The blonde stared at her as if she were finally seeing a person, not an assignment.
She had no tears, but her eyes held a silent question.
"Who are you really?" she whispered.
Before Naiara could answer, she spun on her heels and left the room.
The door closed.
Naiara stood there, next to the tub.
From somewhere in the hallway came the sound of the three women's footsteps retreating.
Then silence. And only then did she realize it.
Her body felt it first, then her mind.
The door hadn't clicked. The sound of the lock… never came.
She turned slowly, heart speeding up.
The handle was there. Exposed. Unlocked.
She approached carefully, as though thinking about it could trigger an alarm.
Her fingers touched the metal. Cold.
She pressed the handle down.
The door opened without resistance.
Her heart hammered so loudly she feared someone might hear it from afar.
She waited for nightfall. It wasn't bravery, just instinct.
She was vulnerable. Wet. Barefoot. Against him, she stood no chance.
So she returned to the room, wrapped herself in a towel, and sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the ticking of her own heartbeat for endless hours.
Only when the night was absolute, thick, unmoving, soundless, did she dare.
You can leave.
You can escape.
She stood, crossed the room, and opened the door. Silence everywhere.
Naiara took a first step into the hallway.
That was when she heard it.
A melody.
Not casual background music. Not a service tune. Something alive.
A piano.
The notes came muffled, deep, as though they were pushing through walls too thick.
A slow, melancholic music, full of a kind of pain no one in this house would ever admit to.
Naiara forgot to breathe.
Every fiber in her screamed that this was madness.
The exit was right there. It was her chance.
But the melody pulled her the other way.
Like an invisible thread hooked into her ribs.
She stepped into the corridor.
The floor was cold beneath her bare feet.
The lighting dim, as if the entire mansion were holding its breath.
She followed the sound. Turned a corner.
Then another.
The music grew clearer. The theme repeated, shifted, swelled. A hand telling a story without words.
Naiara reached a wide door, slightly ajar.
The notes came from inside.
Through the gap she saw.
A vast, elegant room, tall windows draped with heavy curtains half-open.
Moonlight poured in, painting everything in tones of silver and shadow.
In the center: a black grand piano.
Glossy. Perfect. As if placed there for a concert no one else could attend.
On the stool, barefoot, wearing only the elegant trousers of his suit, torso bare, sat him.
The Gray One.
His hair slightly messy, as though he'd run his fingers through it countless times.
His back a precise map of lean muscles, gilded here and there by moonlight.
His hands gliding over the keys with unnatural ease, like the piano was the only thing he didn't need to control.
His eyes were closed.
Naiara leaned against the doorway, breath trapped in her chest.
To her right, not even two meters away, was a door.
A real exit.
A staircase leading down, a darker hallway, the faint smell of the sea drifting from below.
There.
That's your chance.
Go. Run. Now.
She didn't move.
Her body betrayed her: simple, devastating.
Instead of turning toward the exit, she stepped toward him.
One step. Then another. And another.
The floor didn't creak. Her shadow didn't dare stretch too far. And still he didn't react.
Impossible. Yet he kept playing.
When she was close enough to see the subtle rise and fall of his breathing, the Gray One's hands struck the final note.
The chord hung in the air. Vibrated.
Died slowly.
Only then did he speak.
"Interesting," he said without opening his eyes. "They left your door unlocked."
His voice was calm. Almost bored. But underneath… sharp.
Naiara froze.
"I didn't… follow you," she whispered. "I only heard the music."
Finally he opened his eyes. Those gray irises that always seemed to dissect her from the inside. But now, something else.
Something strange. Almost… vulnerable. For a heartbeat.
"You had a way out beside you," he said, tilting his head slightly toward the exit behind her. "And yet you chose to come to me."
He rose from the stool with a slow, fluid motion.
Barefoot, his steps silent on the polished floor.
"To the monster," he added with a half-smile. "Bad choice, little strawberry. You've been a naughty girl."
The words burned her.
Bad. As if she'd broken an invisible rule.
Something flared in her pride.
"I didn't choose you," she retorted, chin lifted. "I just wanted to know where the music came from."
He took a couple of steps closer, but kept his distance. Didn't touch her.
"And now?" he asked softly. "Now that you know… what will you choose?"
Her heart was sprinting.
The exit behind her felt like a living presence.
Was she imagining it, or could she really smell the sea?
She turned sharply toward the door.
"You're right," she said, voice tight. "It's time I choose."
She took a step away from him. Then another.
Her whole body screamed in different directions.
Run.
Stay.
Don't look at him.
Look again. Look again.
She reached for the handle.
She didn't make it.
A hand brushed hers, closing around her fingers. Not pulling. Not stopping her.
Only touching.
Enough to freeze her in place.
Naiara went still, breath caught.
She stared at the door, unable to look back.
She heard his slow steps.
Then the warmth of his body grazed her back, enclosing her.
He wasn't even touching her, and it felt like he was.
When his lips brushed her neck, she shut her eyes in shock.
A shiver exploded down her spine.
His breath was a warm scrape on her skin.
"Run, little strawberry," he whispered.
And the world stopped.