Serena pov
---
The cold night air hung heavily over the isolated, old-fashioned house—an unsettling stillness pressed against its warped wooden walls. Wind scraped against the exterior like skeletal fingers, slipping through cracks to stir the dust inside.
Up on the second floor, the room was dim except for a single flickering bulb, swinging faintly from the ceiling as if disturbed by an unseen presence.
I sat quietly on a thin mattress laid directly on the bare wooden floor. The boards creaked every time the house exhaled. My dark clothes blended seamlessly into the shadows, making me look more like part of the room than a captive in it. The two men positioned near the door stood stiffly, their silhouettes stark against the faint sliver of hallway light.
"The person you want me to keep an eye on is a woman?" one of them asked, his voice laced with a confusion that bordered on disbelief.
"Don't even think about it!" the other snapped. The irritation in his tone was sharp enough to cut through the stagnant air. "Just make sure she doesn't make a run for it. I'll be on the first floor, since he's due to arrive soon."
Without waiting for a reply, he left, heavy boots thudding down the stairs. The boards groaned under every step, as though even the house resented his presence.
The remaining guard exhaled slowly, then turned just enough for me to see the self-satisfied curl of his smirk.
"Got it. I'll just sit here and wait, admiring our lovely hostage," he drawled, his eyes dragging over me with vulgar leisure. "Could you ask him to take his time coming here? Hehe…"
From downstairs, the departing voice echoed back, dripping with condescension. "Well, well… aren't you excited?"
The guard in the room chuckled lowly, stretching his shoulders as if settling in for a show only he could see.
"Normally, I wouldn't even dare to strike up a conversation with such a fine lady," he confessed with shameless candor. "But a chance to spend some quality time alone in a room with one? Of course I'm excited."
A sharp voice cut through the stairwell, colder and far more dangerous.
"You imbecile... If you actually lay a hand on her, you'll find yourself with a bullet in your brain before you even know it. You do remember why that friend of yours died with a hole in his skull, right?"
The guard jolted, then muttered under his breath, eyeing the floorboards as though suddenly very interested in their grain.
"Yeah, yeah..."
The tension in the room shifted—his earlier excitement drained away, leaving behind a faint vibration of frustration and fear.
From below, the first voice called again, loud enough to carry but casual enough to mock,
"Anyway, how come you didn't gag this woman? I mean, she is being nice and quiet."
"Yeah, she's a strange one," the guard near me replied, scratching the back of his neck. "Anyone else would've screamed and begged for their lives..."
He paused, his gaze drifting back to me with a mixture of confusion and unease. "…But this one didn't even blink."
A wooden CREAK echoed violently through the room as the guard downstairs reopened a door. The sound traveled up the old staircase like a warning.
"...But this one didn't even blink," the guard repeated, almost to himself.
The man downstairs raised his voice again as he moved,
"...Well... You might still want to gag her, just in case."
A loud SLAM followed—final, rattling, and absolute—signaling that the downstairs guard had disappeared into whatever duties awaited him.
Silence reclaimed the second floor.
The guard shifted from foot to foot, suddenly unsure. The dim bulb swayed faintly above us, casting its jittery light across the room—across me, sitting perfectly still, perfectly composed, as though none of this had anything to do with me.
Finally, I turned my gaze toward him.
"Why would I bother dealing with nobodies like you?" I said, my voice low, steady, and laced with disdain sharp enough to wound. "There is little point in my deigning to speak to a bunch of henchmen."
His bravado cracked, just for a moment.
A thought slid coldly through my mind, dark and resolute.
It seems today's auction was a trap laid out for me.
Surprisingly, a faint sense of relief followed, soft but undeniable.
I'm glad I was the one they caught... otherwise, poor Sui would have wound up in danger instead.
---
I stood my ground, hands bound tightly behind me, the coarse rope biting into my wrists. Even so, my posture remained straight, almost regal in its defiance. My gaze, sharp and unblinking, sliced through the dim room like a blade.
"Why would I bother dealing with nobodies like you?" I said, voice steady, chilled. "There is little point in my deigning to speak to a bunch of henchmen."
The guard's smug expression faltered. The flickering bulb above us cast warped shadows across the floorboards, as if the darkness itself recoiled from my disdain.
A chilling realization unfurled inside me, cold but precise.
It seems today's auction was a trap laid out for me.
The thought settled in my chest like ice.
Yet instead of fear, something like relief spread through me—subtle, muted, but unmistakable.
I'm glad I was the one they caught... otherwise, poor Sui would have wound up in danger instead.
My breath left me in a slow exhale, tinged with resignation.
I suppose something like this was bound to happen eventually.
Whether it was the shadowy party trying to funnel suspicious money and that dubious painting… the collector who owned Moon Halo… or Slitswan with its infamous backdoor dealings—every thread felt rotten, tangled, wrong.
Each detail had carried an air of danger, and now, sitting in this dilapidated room, the pattern finally revealed itself.
This unpleasant sense of déjà vu crawled up my spine, cold and unwelcome.
This is all too similar to what happened at La Tassaint.
At that name, memory surged: a ghost-like apparition rising from the depths.
A small girl. Me. Wide, terrified eyes reflecting a world that had no intention of protecting her. A trembling figure caught in someone else's cruelty.
For a heartbeat, the past and present overlapped, the frightened child superimposed over the woman I had become.
Just as I was a weak and helpless child back then…
My jaw tightened.
I thought of my current identity—the persona I had crafted so carefully. No matter how prominent an art collector "Sera" may be, she is still merely a face behind a mask. A name I wield, not one that defines me.
My plan—my one, unwavering goal—pressed to the forefront of my thoughts like a heartbeat.
Which is why I was hoping to, not right away but eventually… either acquire Slitswan as part of the Serenity Family conglomerate or start another auction house to compete against it.
The vision was clear enough to taste: stability, autonomy, power. The kind I could bend toward justice rather than corruption.
"He's due to arrive soon? Sounds good to me," I murmured, a faint but dangerously amused smile curling my lips. My voice was soft, almost pleasant—but the tone beneath it was lethal.
I can't wait to see what kind of scoundrel I'm up against this time. Those who debase art to satisfy their filthy greed.
My gaze hardened, turning inward toward a vow carved into the core of my being.
I won't take this lying down.
He'll pay for what he did to me.
Meanwhile, elsewhere, a different scene unfolded—one thick with urgency, simmering rage, and the kind of focus that made the air feel heavier.
At the top of a grand staircase, a tall man stood in a crisp, tailored suit, every line of his posture radiating authority and impatience. His sharp jaw caught the light, eyes like twin shards of ice scanning the room below. He moved with the certainty of a predator surveying its prey.
Below him, Raul fidgeted, his hands nervously adjusting his glasses as he tried to appear composed. But the tension in his posture betrayed him.
"If Sir Victor is really involved in my kidnapping," Raul began, voice trembling slightly, "the first places to look would be his villa and office, and I should be able to find their addresses quickly… But I question whether he would've taken me somewhere so easily discoverable..."
The suited man's expression remained cold, unreadable. He began stepping down the stairs, each footfall deliberate and heavy—STEP… STEP… STEP—like a metronome marking time and impatience alike.
"You're right," he finally said, his voice calm but edged with steel. "He probably wouldn't have taken her somewhere like that."
Raul swallowed hard, pressing on despite the icy gaze fixed upon him. "Victor has a number of secret hideouts… and if he took me to a hideout he's gone to lengths to keep hidden, it'll be difficult to find its location quickly. It will take some time."
The suited man paused midway down the staircase, turning to face Raul fully. His blue eyes, piercing and relentless, seemed to weigh Raul's very soul.
"I'll try contacting Victor directly," he said, measured but commanding. "As for you, Raul—get in touch with Victor's former employees. See if any of them know where his hideouts are. Obtain the manor's call logs from the telephone company and go through them yourself if you have to."
Raul's voice rose slightly, laced with panic. "How long will that take?"
The man's gaze didn't waver. Raul adjusted his glasses, his hands trembling slightly as he attempted to reason. "I'll start by reaching out to my network… including the time it'll take to receive the call logs from the phone company, it should take at least seven days…"
The suited man's jaw tightened. Raul's heart thudded in his chest, anticipating the inevitable. "B-but I'll try my best to find it in five days—" he stammered, voice cracking under pressure.
"Three days." The words were not a suggestion—they were an iron-clad command. Sharp. Absolute. Unnegotiable. "We have three days at most. Drop everything else. Focus solely on this. Do whatever it takes to find the locations of those hideouts in three days."
Raul snapped to attention, every ounce of his being pushed into obedience. "Y-yes, sir! I'll get that to you as quickly as possible!"
The suited man paused at the bottom of the staircase, eyes fixed on some distant point, as though his determination could pierce the walls of the unknown. The room seemed to shrink around him, tension vibrating in every corner.
"I'm bringing you home in three days," he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else, the weight of the promise anchoring itself in the air. "No matter what it takes."
Back in my confinement, I pressed my bound hands against the coarse ropes, teeth gritting instinctively. The clock was ticking, though its exact rhythm remained unknown to me. Every second carried the sharp edge of dread.
And a single question gnawed at the back of my mind:
Who is the person… …who ordered my kidnapping?
I sat on the floor, back pressed against the rough, splintered wood, hands bound tightly behind me. My dark clothes merged with the shadows, my posture rigid despite the tension that coiled in my chest like a living thing. Every creak of the old floorboards seemed to echo in my skull, every whisper of wind pressing against the walls carrying a threat I couldn't see.
The air was heavy, musty with the scent of old timber, dust, and something more intangible—something that set my nerves on edge. I had no idea how long I had been waiting, but each passing second felt like an eternity.
Then—suddenly—the door opened.
A shadow detached itself from the dim hallway and stepped into the room. The light inside was poor, flickering, making him look like a phantom. His form was mostly swallowed by darkness. I couldn't make out his face clearly, couldn't see his eyes or the lines that marked him. My heart hammered violently against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat drowning out the silence.
Then, almost imperceptibly, a shift in the weak light revealed a flash of color—sharp, startling.
Blue eyes…
They cut through the gloom with a piercing clarity, cold and unyielding. My breath caught in my throat.
And then, more details emerged: a scar. A single, brutal line carved across his cheek, jagged and merciless. His presence filled the room, heavy with an aura of control and menace.
THAT MAN IS…
The sight of him struck me like a physical blow, shattering every ounce of composure I had fought so hard to maintain. My carefully gathered resolve crumbled in an instant.
…My whole body froze.
The memories came rushing back, unbidden and violent. Years of repression erupted like a torrent I hadn't anticipated, dragging me under. The fear that had gripped me that day, the terror I'd buried deep within myself, surged forward in an unstoppable tidal wave.
I saw it clearly: a young girl in a light gown, eyes wide and uncomprehending, trembling as the world around her turned chaotic. A man with a cigarette, his presence oppressive, the faint smell of smoke and iron in the air, his face marred by blood. The past and present collided violently, overlapping until the horror of then bled seamlessly into the terror of now.
The man who had just entered—the one who had orchestrated my capture—was the same man from that bloody, terrible memory. The white bandage across my mouth suddenly felt impossibly tight, sealing in a scream that clawed at my throat. I turned my head, desperate to avert my eyes, to escape the nightmare in front of me, but it was too late. His image, his presence, had been etched into my mind with cruel permanence.
The man from my past is here.
" Victor"
The man stood before me, his figure partially swallowed by the shadows, yet somehow fully present in every nerve ending of my body. The faint light caught the blue of his eyes, a color so piercing it seemed almost unnatural, and traced the red slash of the scar cutting across his cheek. Every detail of his face—the cold geometry of his jaw, the cruel set of his mouth—was illuminated in stark clarity.
Then, he smiled.
It was a smile I had seen before, a terrifyingly familiar expression that clawed at the deepest recesses of memory.
"Hello there," he said, his voice low, calm, and heavy with the weight of menace.
My mind screamed, yet no sound escaped me. Years of painstaking self-reassurance flashed before me: "Don't show fear. I'm all right now, aren't I?" I had whispered it to myself countless times, a lifeline I clung to in the dark hours of the night. I told myself, over and over, that those memories don't frighten me anymore… that I'm all grown up now, and I'd be fine—even if I were ever to run into him again someday.
I thought I had overcome the trauma of that day. I thought I had buried it deep, hidden beneath layers of control and careful poise. But now, confronted with him, I realized… perhaps I never had.
The fear I had thought vanished surged again, a tidal wave crashing over me with all the brutality of the past. It threatened to overwhelm my senses, to collapse the carefully constructed persona I had built over the years.
All I could do was close my eyes, pressing my palms—or rather, my bound hands—against the ropes of restraint as if that small act could shield me. I tried to block out the image of him—the scent of acrid cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes, the flecks of red on his sleeves, the cold glint in his eyes, the scar that had branded itself into my nightmares.
Faced with that overwhelming presence, I was no longer the confident collector known as Sera.
…I was still that scared fourteen-year-old girl.
He took two deliberate, heavy STEPs toward me. My body reacted before my mind could catch up—I flinched, instinctively leaning away, my back pressing harder against the rough floor.
He stopped mere inches from me, bending slightly. His hand shot out, rough and unyielding, grasping my chin with a firm grip. A sharp YANK forced me to meet his gaze, to look directly into the eyes that had haunted my memory for so long.
His voice was cold, condescending, dripping with a cruelty that had been honed over years.
"You're even younger than I expected."
Purple eyes, wide with unshed terror, stared up at his cold blue ones. The white cloth pressed across my mouth muffled my screams, sealing in the panic I could not voice. Inside, there was no adult confidence, no sharp intellect, no art collector Sera.
Inside, I was still that helpless girl, trapped, powerless, reliving the moment when the world had first broken.
---
The man—the specter from my past—still held my chin, his fingers firm and unyielding, forcing me to meet his piercing gaze. His blue eyes seemed to bore straight into me, scanning every line of my face as if searching for some hidden truth.
"I must say… you seem rather familiar," he said, his voice calm but edged with an unsettling weight. He tilted my head slightly, his thumb dragging across my jawline with an almost casual familiarity. Then, with a sudden, sharp motion, he released me. I swayed slightly, caught off guard, my balance uncertain on the rough wooden floor.
He turned away with a dismissive TURN, his coat brushing against the dim light as he began circling me like a predator inspecting its prey. The room seemed smaller with each step he took, the shadows folding around him, the silence stretching and pressing against my chest.
"Are you a collector? Or an art broker? I don't know who you really are…" His voice slowed, deliberate. He paused mid-circle, the weight of his scrutiny amplifying the tension until it seemed to settle into the very air. "…Well, I suppose it doesn't matter."
His tone shifted then, crisp and cold, business-like, like a man addressing an inconvenient problem rather than a living being. "Anyway, a while back… you took a very valuable painting of mine. It ended up in your hands due to a little blunder my people made during shipping… and as it's rightfully mine, I'd like it back."
He gestured vaguely with one hand, the motion precise and controlled. "Also, I don't know if you're aware of this, but I'm running a very important business… and you, little collector, are getting in the way of it."
From an inner pocket of his coat, he produced a folded piece of paper. Holding it up for me to see, he let his eyes flick toward mine with a cruel, calculated amusement.
"But why don't you go play elsewhere," he continued, voice softening mockingly, "start collecting pretty toys and trinkets instead? And don't concern yourself with what us grown-ups get up to. It's too dangerous for a little girl like you."
He glanced back down at the paper, his hand steady. "Sure, you'll lose a few paintings you've worked so hard to collect…" The words hung in the air like a razor, a deliberate calculation of my losses and effort, designed to sting.
Then he concluded, extending the document toward me, the finality in his gesture sharp and deliberate.
"Here. As soon as you sign this, I'll let you go."
I stared at the paper, my bound hands stiff, the weight of the choice pressing down on me. Every fiber of my being recoiled, yet the decision was laid bare.
I'm faced with a demand to sign away what I've collected in exchange for my freedom.
His smug offer hovered in the air like a challenge, the "Transfer of Ownership Agreement" a stark, almost mocking white blot against the dim, flickering light. The scent of dust and old wood pressed against me, mingling with the acrid memory of cigarette smoke that still clung to him. The fear that had gripped me earlier clung like a cold shadow, but something else began to stir—a fierce, burning rage that roared through my veins.
With a surge of defiant adrenaline, I spat. The muffled sound barely escaped through the gag, but the intent was unmistakable.
"GET THAT THING OUT OF MY FACE, YOU BASTARD."
My eyes, wide and shimmering with lingering terror, now blazed with an unyielding fire. "I WON'T LET YOU LAY A FINGER ON WHAT'S MINE."
He merely chuckled, a low, unsettling sound that reverberated through the small room.
"Guess you're not quite ready yet to sign this," he said, the amusement in his tone like a blade. He glanced at one of his henchmen standing nearby, who shifted uneasily under his gaze.
"She's not the easily frightened or docile type," he murmured, a smirk curling at the edge of his lips. "Well… the feisty ones are more of a nuisance… but more fun, too."
Without warning, he knelt beside me. The room seemed to shrink under his presence, his aura heavy and suffocating. His hand shot out, firm and commanding, grasping my jaw again. He tilted my head back so I had no choice but to meet those blue eyes, glinting with a chilling possessiveness.
"Luckily for you," he said slowly, deliberately, "I'm going to be away on a business trip for the next three days." His thumb pressed lightly against my cheekbone, a subtle assertion of dominance, tightening just enough to convey the threat beneath the words. "So I'll give you three days… to think this over carefully and write down everything I asked you to."
Then, with a sudden, sharp motion, he pulled my hair back, a tug that made my eyes water and my breath hitch.
"If this thing still isn't signed by the time I'm back," he whispered, voice low and lethal, "I'm going to carve a scar—like mine—into your pretty face… every ten minutes." The threat hung in the air, ice-cold and precise, calculated to make my blood run cold. "So let's not waste each other's time."
He released me abruptly, the paper fluttering to the floor near my bare feet, landing with a muted slap against the worn wood. My unbound hands trembled, even as the phantom weight of his touch lingered, a burning reminder of control and menace.
He turned, and with two heavy STEPs, his presence receded, leaving the room in oppressive silence.
The door clicked shut behind him, plunging the space into deeper shadow.
I was left alone with the image of his scar, the echo of his chilling words, and the stark, suffocating reality:
Three days. Alone.
Here is the expanded version up to your final line and not beyond it, deepening the emotion, tension, and clarity of her resolve:
The door clicked shut—
then came the heavy SLAM, a violent punctuation mark to the threat he had left hanging in the air. The sound reverberated through the walls, through the floor, through my bones. Then silence reclaimed the room, thick and suffocating.
My body trembled, a faint, involuntary shiver. Not just from the cold biting into my skin and the hard floor beneath me—but from the collision of two forces inside me: the raw, instinctive fear clawing at my ribs… and the explosive anger burning beneath it.
Three days.
That was my window.
Three days until he returned. Three days until he expected my surrender—or promised my mutilation.
I lowered my gaze to my bound hands, fingers numb from the tight rope digging into my skin. The "Transfer of Ownership Agreement" lay just inches from my bare feet, the crisp white paper like a taunt. Innocent-looking. Deceitfully so.
He wanted me to sign away everything I had built. My collection. My reputation. My future.
He wanted to strip me of the identity I had spent years constructing with impossible effort and precision.
Never.
A dark, unsettling thought surfaced—one I didn't want to acknowledge but couldn't deny.
The fact that I ran into him… him… the man responsible for the tragedy at La Tassaint…
Was this some kind of divine punishment?
Retribution for my own greed?
Or—
—or perhaps, something else.
Perhaps it was a twisted blessing in disguise.
He had given me something priceless.
Something I had searched for in the shadows of my memory, in the ruins of that night.
A face.
The face of the enemy.
The man who had me kidnapped.
The man who tried to steal from me.
The man whose mere presence still terrified the child inside me—the 14‑year‑old who heard the screams and the collapsing walls of La Tassaint.
And now I knew: he was the same man who destroyed my life.
If he's connected to La Tassaint…
If he was arrogant enough to slip up like this…
Then he knows who I really am.
He thought the threat of a scar would break me.
Thought I would fold.
Thought 'Sera,' the esteemed art collector, was all I was.
He didn't realize that Sera was a mask.
A carefully orchestrated performance.
A shield.
The real me—the girl who survived the ashes and blood of La Tassaint—was far harder to frighten.
I slowly leaned my head back against the cold wall, eyes lifting to the ceiling as the beginnings of a plan clicked into place. Fragment by fragment. Thought by thought. A blueprint forming from desperation and fury.
I didn't know who this "Victor" truly was.
Or what kind of "business" he was conducting.
But there was one thing I was absolutely certain of.
I drew my bound hands forward as far as I could, twisting my wrists, forcing the rough rope to grind against itself, burning my skin. My jaw set, teeth clenched with a new, sharper determination.
I have to get out of here, and I'll make sure he pays for every single painting he's laid his hands on.
There isn't a single person in this kingdom that I fear.
My power is absolute. My influence runs through every alley, every gilded hall, every backroom where decisions are truly made. I command silence with a glance. I command obedience with a word. I command fear—
I don't feel it.
And yet…
The moment I saw her—that girl—something twisted low in my stomach. Not fear. Never fear. But a strange, instinctive disquiet, the kind that sinks its cold claws into the spine before the mind can make sense of it.
Something about her…
Something undefinable…
rubs me the wrong way.
I see her clearly in my mind's eye, even now.
Sometimes she sits in nothing more than a thin, light tunic, legs pulled tight against her chest, shoulders trembling from cold or terror—I cannot tell which. Sometimes she is dressed in that crisp school uniform, the white pleated skirt brushing against the concrete floor, the dark blazer swallowing her small frame in the oppressive blue shadows of the room.
Two versions of her.
Both fragile.
Both helpless.
A lamb awaiting slaughter.
In any other circumstance, I would have eliminated the threat immediately. Root, stem, and leaf—cut clean from the world. Weakness has no place in my realm. Loose ends even less so.
But with her…
When I see her small frame curl inward, as though she's trying to make herself disappear—
When her head drops forward and her shoulders collapse in a soft, defeated SLUMP—
I should strike then. End her.
Yet I don't.
The final blow never lands.
I find myself looking away instead, jaw tight, thoughts shifting from instinct to calculation. A slow, cold assessment coils through my mind, precise as a blade.
I'd better let her live for now…
A decision made not out of mercy—never mercy—but strategy.
She is unpredictable.
A variable.
A loose thread in the tapestry I've woven with ruthless precision.
Ordinarily, such a flaw would earn a swift execution. But something tells me that forcing a conclusion now—pushing for a definitive end too soon—
will backfire.
And I do not tolerate miscalculations.
So I will wait.
I will observe.
I will unravel this anomaly piece by piece.
She may be small. She may be trembling. She may be insignificant by every measurable standard.
But she unsettles something deep within me—something I cannot define.
And what I cannot define,
I must contain
until I can finally dissect it, understand it, and erase it.
For now, she has earned a temporary reprieve.
But only until I can decide on a permanent solution.