The wood beneath my bare feet was rough, cold, and unforgiving, scraping lightly every time I shifted my weight. I drew my knees closer to my chest, curling into the smallest version of myself in a futile attempt to capture the warmth bleeding out of my body. The corner of the room—my supposed "safe" spot—was coated in a thin film of dust that clung to my skin like a second prison.
Above me, the oil lamps flickered weakly, their flames shivering with every faint draft that crept through unseen cracks. The wavering light warped the shadows against the walls, stretching them into eerie shapes that felt almost alive. Each distorted silhouette seemed to press in on me, reminding me again and again how utterly alone I was.
A crumpled piece of paper lay beside my foot.
That damned "Transfer of Ownership Agreement."
My jaw tightened each time my eyes drifted toward it. It looked cheap, almost laughably so—thin paper, smudged ink, the kind of document used by people who didn't understand the meaning of decency or legality. Yet its existence was a cruel symbol of my situation: a commodity, a bargaining chip, a thing to be transferred.
"Being abducted, physically restrained, and threatened… This isn't anything like my usual business dealings," I whispered.
The hoarseness of my voice startled me. I hadn't spoken in what felt like hours, maybe longer.
"I hate this so much…"
The admission felt like a crack forming in my armor.
Despair washed through me—hot, dizzying, suffocating.
There was nowhere to run. The door was heavy, reinforced. The walls looked thick enough to withstand a siege. Everything about this place screamed permanence, as if it were designed specifically to crush hope.
Is there anything I can do?
The question was a whisper inside my skull, and the silence that answered felt like a mocking, resounding no.
But despair was a luxury I didn't have time for.
"I can't just sit here," I told myself, forcing my breaths into something steady. My hands clenched into fists. "I need to do something…"
The fraying thread of logic in my mind pointed me toward the most immediate problem: my body.
"The first problem," I muttered, "is that I'm not feeling physically well."
Ever since I had the misfortune of crossing paths with Victor, my body had been betraying me. Even thinking his name felt like swallowing poison. A sickening tightness twisted in my stomach, not quite fear but something darker, deeper. My limbs felt weak, my thoughts fogged.
The room didn't smell like blood—but memory didn't need scent to haunt me.
The idea of blood lingered, thick and metallic in my mind, phantom and suffocating.
"I can't stop recalling that stench…" I murmured.
Nausea roiled through me again.
The headache pulsed behind my eyes, sharp enough to make my vision blur at the edges.
I pressed my palms against the cool floor, grounding myself with its rough texture.
I needed a plan.
Anything.
Then—there it was.
A faint, distant hint of salvation.
A sound.
I held my breath and listened harder.
A telephone.
Muffled but unmistakable.
Somewhere beyond the wall to my right.
My heart kicked painfully in my chest.
Voices floated through the wall, hazy but clear enough to understand if I focused.
"She won't touch any of the food or water we give her. She's a tough one."
Another voice sighed, frustrated and anxious.
"Getting her to sign is one thing, but how are we going to force her to write down the address? What do we do? He'll be back tomorrow."
Their worry sent a spark of defiance through me.
So they needed something from me.
An address.
A signature.
My submission.
But I had given them nothing.
No food.
No water.
No expressions to read.
No leverage.
If they thought I was "tough," I had no choice but to keep proving them right.
Victor would return tomorrow.
And all I had—all I had—was the next few hours, and the faint promise of that telephone.
If I wanted even the smallest chance of survival, I needed to find a way to reach it.
I curled my fingers around the silver cross at my throat, the metal cool enough to chase back the dizziness fogging my thoughts. The familiar weight steadied me, grounding me in a reality that was slipping farther and farther out of my control.
If only I could get to that phone…
The murmur of voices from the next room had become its own brand of torture—sometimes muffled, sometimes clear enough to sting. Their casual conversation reminded me that help was close and yet impossibly far, the telephone just on the other side of a wall I couldn't breach. I knew I had to reach it. I just didn't know how. Not yet.
Then—
BANG! BANG!
The sudden blows against the door slammed through my spine like lightning.
I flinched, breath catching in my throat.
The heavy handle jiggled once, twice.
"Hmm? What is it?" came the familiar rough voice.
"Changed your mind, have you?"
His tone was mocking, expectant.
He was waiting for me to give up. To fold.
To sign.
And that was exactly why I couldn't hesitate.
I forced my stiff legs to move, uncoiling from the dusty floorboards one inch at a time. My body screamed its protest—weakness, nausea, the pounding ache behind my eyes—but I pushed through it. If I didn't open this door now, my chance might slip through my fingers.
The hinges groaned as the door creaked open, light spilling into the dim, claustrophobic room.
The man with the dark ponytail stood there, filling the doorway. He looked down at me, confusion flickering across his expression when I didn't speak.
Instead, I lifted my bound hands toward him.
His eyebrows twitched upward. Surprise? Suspicion?
He hadn't expected this.
Before the moment collapsed, before my courage faltered, I spoke—my voice thin, trembling but controlled.
Two days later
(Shift to the Allies' Perspective)
Far from the suffocating gloom of my cell, in an office bathed in controlled elegance and soft light, time had dragged like lead.
"It's already been two days…" the woman said as she hurried behind the green-haired man, her heels clicking anxiously against the polished floor. "Where could she be…?"
He didn't slow. His stride was sharp, relentless—a man teetering between discipline and desperation.
Two days.
Two days without a sign.
His jaw tightened. "The police said it looks like they've left the city, and it'll be difficult to track them any further."
Her breath hitched, but she said nothing.
The unspoken truth hung in the air: they could not rely on the police. Not for this. Not for Serena.
"I couldn't reach Victor," he muttered, pushing a hand through his short, dark-green hair. "His whereabouts are unclear… And I never expected the police to be of much help anyway."
A map lay spread across the desk, marked with red circles and black slashes. Raul's handwriting. His insights. His frustrations.
"Raul and I found a few of Victor's secret hideouts," he continued. "We're tracking them down one at a time. We'll get to her. Soon."
The woman swallowed hard and pointed to the list. "There are five locations remaining. Serena has to be in one of these places."
Her finger trembled slightly.
Then, as if trying to convince herself, she added in a hopeful whisper:
"But… at least she was wearing her necklace. So she should be okay, right?"
He paused.
Turned.
"Necklace?"
She nodded quickly. "I'm not sure if you've seen it before. But she always carries a small silver cross. She never takes it off."
A necklace.
Something small. Personal.
Something Serena would never abandon unless someone tore it from her hands.
He stared at the list again, the red and black marks blurring into possibility.
A clue.
A link.
A lifeline he hadn't known existed.
"But… at least she was wearing her necklace," she repeated, almost pleading.
His eyes sharpened, determination coiling tight in his chest like a drawn bowstring.
Serena… you're brilliant.
Five locations.
One necklace.
One chance to turn the smallest detail into her salvation.
He just had to figure out how.
Here is a polished, seamless novel-style expansion of your passage — rich detail, emotional depth, cinematic pacing — ending exactly where your text ends and not continuing beyond it.
🔪 The Hidden Needle — Expanded Novelization
(Serena's Perspective → Allies' Perspective)
🔪 The Hidden Needle
The guard's back turned for only a fraction of a second.
A shuffle.
A reach.
A moment too small for most people to act on — but for me, after two days of captivity, sickness, and fear, it was a split-second window carved by desperation.
I moved.
My fingers trembled violently as they flew to my necklace, the cool silver cross knocking against my collarbone. It looked so harmless. Innocent, even. A piece of jewelry a noblewoman might wear for sentimental value.
But sentiment had nothing to do with it.
Four years ago, I — Lady Serena — had commissioned the modification.
Four years ago, I had realized that the world I lived in was far too dangerous to greet unarmed.
Four years ago, I'd decided that if the time came, I would not go down helpless.
My thumb found the nearly invisible seam.
Click.
The top half of the cross detached smoothly.
Inside, nestled like a serpent coiled in hiding, lay a needle no longer than the width of my pinky nail — coated in a concentrated, fast-acting paralytic poison.
Not fatal.
Never fatal.
But enough to send a man twice my size crumpling to the ground in under ten seconds.
My captor turned back toward me, holding the Transfer of Ownership Agreement like a twisted badge of victory.
His lips curled into a self-satisfied smirk.
"So, you finally decided to cooperate. Good. Let's start with the—"
He never finished that sentence.
I lunged.
My body was weak — starved, dehydrated, trembling — but adrenaline made up for what strength could not. The world narrowed into a single point: the exposed skin at the side of his neck.
My arm shot forward.
The needle punctured flesh.
A soft, almost anticlimactic tap — the kind a mosquito bite might make.
His reaction, however, was anything but small.
His eyes flew wide.
A choke escaped his throat.
His fingers went slack, dropping the contract to the floor.
He staggered back, instinctively reaching for the wound, but the paralysis overtook him too quickly. His knees buckled. His breath hitched. His muscles seized in jerking spasms before giving way entirely.
He collapsed against the door, sliding downward with a dull thud.
His unconscious body pushed the door slightly ajar, letting out a soft metallic click as the latch loosened.
For a moment, the world swayed around me.
I staggered, barely catching myself on the doorframe.
The air tasted of dust, wood, and the faint, acidic tang of fear.
But beyond the wall — faint, muffled, tantalizing — I heard it again:
The telephone.
My way out.
I stepped over the guard's limp form, gripping the edge of the door with trembling fingers, and pushed it open. The hallway stretched before me, shadows flickering like warnings.
I didn't have time.
I didn't have strength.
But I had a chance.
I moved.
Across the city, far from the suffocating air of my prison, urgency crackled through a spacious office like static.
The green-haired man paused only when the woman beside him spoke again, her voice trembling with a mix of guilt and relief.
"Lady Serena hasn't been wearing it as of late…" she murmured, remembering. "But two days ago, before she left for work, I remembered Frederick's instructions and put it on her."
The man's head snapped up.
"Frederick?"
"Yes." She swallowed. "He knew the secret of that necklace. He told me, 'Even if she doesn't wear it, make sure she always has it with her. It isn't sufficient to serve as a weapon… but it may come in handy.'"
At those words, something shifted in the green-haired man — a realization, sharp and immediate.
"Four years ago… in case of an emergency?" His voice carried a note of dry humor. "That can only mean she had it made to use on me."
A faint, wry smile tugged at his lips — the kind of hardened amusement only someone who had survived betrayal could muster.
"In any case," he said, voice dropping to something more earnest, "I'm relieved she has something to defend herself with."
His gaze returned to the map spread out on the desk — five red-marked locations still unchecked. Five possibilities. Five nightmares.
With this new information, urgency surged through him again.
She had a chance now.
A small one.
A fragile one.
But a chance nonetheless.
They just had to reach her before that chance — or Serena herself — ran out.
Here is your expanded, polished novel-style scene — deeply atmospheric, emotionally charged, and ending exactly at your final line, with no continuation beyond it.
📞 The Ringing Silence — Expanded Novelization
(Serena's Perspective → Victor's Perspective)
📞 The Ringing Silence
The hallway was unnervingly quiet.
Too quiet.
I stepped over the unconscious guard, my breath trembling in my chest. My legs felt like they were held together by threads; every step threatened to unspool me completely. The poisoned needle was already hidden once more within the cross necklace, its deadly secret safely tucked away — but my hands still tingled from the violence I had been forced to commit.
Just a little farther…
The ornate table came into view, its legs carved with swirling motifs, as though mocking my desperation with their elegance. Resting atop it, bathed in soft lamplight, was the telephone — my lifeline, my salvation, my only hope of reaching the outside world.
"If I could just use that phone..."
The thought echoed through my skull like a heartbeat.
I lurched forward, each step a negotiation between will and failing strength. Hunger gnawed at my insides. Thirst burned my throat raw. The air itself felt too heavy to breathe.
I raised a trembling hand toward the receiver—
RRRING.
The sound struck me like a blow.
I flinched violently, the ringing vibrating through my bones. It filled the narrow corridor, cold and mechanical, cutting through the stillness with brutal precision.
My mind raced.
If the captors heard it, they would come.
If I answered, I might be discovered.
If I didn't answer, they would be suspicious.
A trap. A blessing. Both.
I swallowed, forcing air into my lungs, and grabbed the receiver just as the ringing tapered off, my fingers slick with sweat. I pressed it to my ear, every nerve in my body screaming with urgency and terror.
This had to connect me to someone — anyone — who could help.
Far away, beneath a night sky washed in an unnatural violet hue, Victor stood before a tall window lined with cold, glittering panes. His reflection stared back at him — sharp, elegant, and steeped in a darkness that clung to him like a second skin.
But his mind was nowhere near this room.
It was with me.
"No doubt she's stubbornly refusing all food and drink…" he murmured, the low sound carrying an unsettling blend of irritation and admiration. "Also, I bet she's never been alone for this long in her entire life."
His fingers curled slowly into a fist.
CLENCH.
The tension trembled through his arm — a mix of hunger, possessiveness, and something that tried to mimic concern but twisted itself into something darker.
"I don't care if she's irritated or hisses at me like an angry kitten," he whispered, eyes darkening. "In any shape or form…"
His mind filled with images — memories of my sharp tongue, my poised glare, the layers of dignity I wrapped around myself like armor. He had peeled away some of those layers in his imagination countless times.
"And even though she pretends otherwise…"
A hint of softness, of dangerous tenderness, crept into his voice.
"…she's quite easily frightened."
His jaw tightened, the sound faint but lethal.
"Meaning she must be very exhausted and scared right now."
His obsession painted me in two opposing lights — fierce and terrified, untouchable and breakable — a contradiction he savored like a fine wine. And in that contradiction, he found a vision he couldn't shake.
"A vision so powerful that I don't think it'll ever stop until I am able to lay my eyes on her again…"
He inhaled deeply, almost shuddering.
"…so much so that it's nearly disorienting. I want to see her again as soon as possible."
Then—
RRRING.
The sound sliced through the sorcerous stillness of the chamber.
Victor's head snapped toward the direction of the telephone.
His eyes narrowed sharply, all softness evaporating, replaced by razor-edged awareness. That phone line connected only to one place.
The cabin.
It wasn't the number used by his underlings.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
He moved toward the sound with a slow, predatory stride, every movement taut with contained danger — already sensing, with a sickening clarity, that something had gone wrong with his angry kitten.
(Serena's Perspective)
The receiver felt heavier than it should, an old piece of metal and lacquer that suddenly carried the weight of my entire life. My fingers slipped once, twice, slick with sweat and trembling from exhaustion, before I finally managed to clamp down hard enough to hold it steady.
The ringing stopped.
The silence rang louder.
I leaned against the table, my body on the verge of collapse. My eyes darted up and down the hallway as every nerve in my body screamed, Move, Serena, move, but my legs were barely obeying. Hunger gnawed with sharp, clawed fingers at my ribs. The dizziness felt like the world was tilting beneath me.
Still—I had the phone.
I had something.
"If I can just—"
The coded message, the address, anything—
A voice cut through the fragile hope like a blade.
"Serena."
Everything inside me stopped.
My blood froze. My lungs forgot how to move. My fingers clenched around the receiver so suddenly that a bolt of pain shot down my arm.
His voice.
Smooth. Low. Controlled.
The calm before a storm he was the center of.
Victor.
A strangled sound rose in my throat before I could swallow it back — weak, humiliating, raw.
CHOKE.
He heard it.
Of course he did.
"Are you hurt?"
His tone carried no warmth, no softness — but the menace underneath was unmistakable, coiled like a serpent ready to strike.
I pressed my lips together so tightly they trembled.
No.
I would not answer him.
I would not give him the satisfaction of hearing me speak, hearing me break.
But I couldn't hang up.
My body wouldn't obey. Fear had rooted me to the spot, freezing me in place as if his gaze alone — through the phone, through the distance — pinned me down.
He said nothing more.
The silence throbbed, full and suffocating.
It wasn't empty. It was him. His presence filled the line. His attention. His obsession.
I could hear my own breathing, ragged, uneven, humiliatingly loud.
He could, too.
Slowly, with a hand that felt disconnected from the rest of my body, I lowered the receiver back to its cradle.
CLICK.
The sound echoed through the hollow hall like the sealing of a tomb.
I hadn't answered him.
But I had told him everything.
I had told him I'd escaped the room.
I had told him I'd gotten to the phone.
I had told him he still had control.
My one chance — my only chance — gone.
The dizzy wave hit me again, harder this time. My vision blurred at the edges as I staggered backward, gripping the wall for balance. The faint scent of old wood and dust grounded me just enough to keep me from collapsing right there.
I stumbled back into the small, dimly lit prison room and slid down the wall, the rough surface scraping against my shoulder blades. My chest tightened as I clutched the cross necklace — the same necklace that had just saved me, and yet, somehow, doomed me.
Tears pricked at my eyes, hot and humiliating.
He knew.
He knew.
My breath hitched as the reality suffocated me.
I was too weak to fight.
The scent of him — of the man he killed, of the blood I'd imagined — lingered in my head, making my stomach twist.
My limbs were heavy, trembling.
And now… now I had no chance to hide what I'd done.
A terrible, hopeless thought slithered into my mind:
This is my fault.
I knew his obsession.
I knew his danger.
I knew what he was capable of.
So why…
…Why did I call you and not the police or the phone room of the manor…
The question dropped into me like a stone, sinking straight to the bottom of my stomach.
I hadn't called him.
But he had gotten to me first.
He had taken even this moment — this sliver of hope — and twisted it into another chain.
Now he knew I'd escaped.
And his men would be coming.
I slumped back onto the floor, the heavy antique receiver placed gently back on its cradle. The encounter had lasted mere seconds, but Victor's voice—smooth, cold, and utterly possessive—had shattered my composure. My hands were still trembling, my breath still uneven. I didn't want to cry, I wanted to stay alert, sharp, defiant… but hearing his voice through the line, so close and yet impossibly distant, had yanked open wounds I had barely managed to stitch shut.
"As soon as I heard his familiar voice…" My throat tightened. "I burst into tears like a child."
It disgusted me. It terrified me even more.
"And I can't for the life of me shake off this feeling that's intermingled with fear."
Not just fear of captivity, not just fear of being left in a place I couldn't identify—
It was the horror of being forced into a confrontation with him again.
Far worse than being abducted, blindfolded, and thrown into some unfamiliar place… was hearing Victor speak my name as though nothing had changed. As though I belonged to him. As though my will didn't matter.
And I think I'm still reeling from it.
I wiped my tears away angrily, smearing the salt across my cheeks. "NO…" I whispered to myself, voice trembling. "If all I'm going to do is cry my eyes out like a fool, I would certainly die here."
My lungs burned as I steadied myself. "All right."
I was still weak, still trapped, but the call—horrifying as it was—had not been completely meaningless. The more I replayed those moments in my head, the clearer something became.
I hadn't been able to speak freely. I hadn't been able to scream for help.
But I had managed to say something.
I closed my eyes again, breathing slowly through my nose as I forced myself to recall those vital, silent seconds—those seconds where instinct and desperation intermingled until meaning slipped out through cracks in my composure.
I hadn't answered his question.
But in refusing it, in my panic, in the jumbled phrases that slipped out… I had left clues.
He had asked: Do you know where you are?
"NO…" I recalled, reliving the moment. "Not long after I got in the car, the kidnappers covered my eyes."
But what about before then?
Had I seen anything? Had my frantic gaze caught something before the darkness swallowed everything?
A faint memory surfaced.
The last thing I saw before the blindfold—the window's edge, the blur of green rushing past.
"The forest," I whispered into the empty room. "The car headed to the outskirts of Wellenberg and entered a forest."
The image was faint, incomplete, but real. I had seen treetops bending under the wind as the vehicle sped deeper off the main road.
And even if I couldn't be sure where within that forest I had ended up, I knew something else—something that mattered.
"And though I couldn't see the outside now," I murmured, fingers brushing the wooden panel behind me, "I knew one thing about my prison."
"After that, I have no idea. I'm currently in an old two-story wooden house. That's all I saw."
The words were quiet but steady.
The realization was even steadier.
I leaned my head back, the wood cool against my skull. My heartbeat slowed—not enough to calm me, but enough to let me think.
I hadn't called my allies.
But eiser had called me.
This phone—this ancient, dusty device—was connected to his network. Outgoing calls were probably restricted… but incoming calls, especially unexpected ones from eiser 's private line, were another story entirely.
He had tried to chase me into silence, but the moment he contacted me, my allies would see the signature.
If Raul or the green-haired man or anyone else was monitoring eiser's communications, this line had just become a beacon.
I had given them two words:
Wellenberg
and
forest.
That alone was enough to narrow miles into fragments, fragments into possibilities, possibilities into a hunt.
I let my body slowly sink to the floor, lying back fully as the cold wood pressed into my spine.
My fingers curled around the small cross on my necklace, its edges biting lightly into my palm.
I had done what I could.
Now, I just had to survive until they arrived.
Authors pov
While I was still reeling from the shock of victor's voice—its icy calm, its suffocating familiarity—miles away, Raul and my assistant were already in motion. The unexpected incoming call to that remote, isolated line had triggered an alert in their system, just as I'd hoped. My moment of terror had carried meaning.
Raul stood over the central table in the manor's operations room, the glow of monitors illuminating the sharp angles of his focused expression. The grand manor, normally a place of decor and ceremonial elegance, now resembled a war room—wires, communication devices, and maps spread across every available surface.
My assistant, breathless and pale from sprinting between stations, relayed the information with trembling precision.
"She saw the car heading to the outskirts of Wellenberg and entering a forest," she recited, finger sliding across the map's rough topography until it hovered over a thick green patch. "And she said she's in an old two-story wooden house."
Raul's previously grim, indecisive tension snapped into clarity. His green hair caught the reflection of the overhead lamp as he leaned in, eyes narrowing. The five possible hideouts pinned earlier—all circled in red—contracted into a single point on the map.
"That's it," he murmured, his voice carrying a sudden, sharp certainty. He traced a finger along the marked forest road—a narrow, nearly forgotten path. "The location is locked down."
A property victor used rarely. Quiet. Remote. Hidden where no one would question the sound of a gunshot or the disappearance of a trespasser.
My assistant's voice trembled with urgency. "We've wasted too much time already. We need to leave, now."
Raul lifted his gaze, calculating. He could practically feel Victor's reaction across the distance. The moment Victor realized I had escaped my room—even briefly—his paranoia would ignite like a struck match.
"No, wait," Raul said, holding up a hand. His mind raced through escape routes, guard rotations, terrain patterns. "Victor won't sit still after that phone call. She left her room—he'll know. Reinforcements will already be moving."
He gestured toward the small case on the table: sleek, black, and unmistakably dangerous. Inside was a compact device designed for silent extraction and limited communication—meant for operations where one mistake meant death.
"We go in fast and completely silent," Raul said, snapping the case shut. "If we alert even one of Victor's men, she's done."
My assistant's composure cracked; desperation shone through her eyes. "We have to hurry… before Victor's men get there."
Raul nodded, jaw tightening. The mission had become a race—seconds slipping like sand.
Back in the dim, dusty confines of the two-story wooden house, the stale air trembled with sound.
Footsteps.
Slow, heavy, approaching.
No more than two rooms away.
The poison I had slipped earlier had bought me precious minutes, but Victor's sudden call had erased the rest of my advantage. My captors were reorganizing. Searching. Closing in.
A pulse of fear ran up my spine.
I looked down at my cross necklace—my tiny salvation, my last card. Its presence grounded me, reminded me that I had already done the impossible: I had gotten a message out. Even if unintentionally, even through fear, even through a ragged gasp.
But now, everything depended on survival.
The corridor ahead was dim, but I could make out the silhouette of a narrow staircase leading upward. The house smelled of damp wood, mold, and memories—abandoned, forgotten, except for moments like this when it served a darker purpose.
Up.
If I couldn't go out, I had to go up.
I placed a hand against the wall and pushed myself onto my feet. My legs wobbled. The dizziness washed over me in a nauseating wave, but I forced myself to breathe through it. The pounding headache blurred the edges of my vision, but I steadied myself again.
I had given my allies the key.
Now, all I had to do was survive long enough for them to arrive.
I needed to find a place to hide, perhaps on the second floor, and wait for the signal.
Here is your expanded scene, enriched in tone, depth, and emotional clarity. It ends exactly at your final line and does not continue the story beyond what you provided.
🌑 A Whisper of Hope in the Dark — Expanded
My hand—still wrapped in rough, hastily tied bandages—shook faintly as I held the warm porcelain mug between my palms. The heat seeped into my skin, offering a fragile illusion of safety, of comfort, though none truly existed here. The air was cold, the wooden room dim, and every shadow on the wall felt like it was watching me.
My thoughts churned restlessly. Fear, exhaustion, and the dizzying ache in my head should have drowned everything out… and yet one voice had cut through the chaos.
His voice.
Deep. Steady. Unshakably calm.
The memory of it had settled over me like a blanket I hadn't asked for but found myself clinging to anyway.
"WHY DOES YOUR VOICE REASSURE ME SO MUCH?" I whispered into the mug, the porcelain trembling against my lips. I hated how vulnerable I sounded—even to myself. A promise shouldn't have this kind of power over me. Not now, not here.
But it did.
"I'LL COME FIND YOU SOON. SO JUST… STAY CALM AND WAIT A LITTLE LONGER."
Those words had carried a warmth I couldn't understand. A solidity I shouldn't trust. And yet…
My gaze drifted downward, to my bare feet on the cold, splintered floorboards. A reminder of my captivity. A reminder of everything I'd lost control over.
"…AM I WAITING FOR YOU?" I murmured, barely audible, barely willing to admit it. The thought alone was frightening—because it meant hope. It meant believing in someone.
I took a shuddering breath. Then another. The warmth of the mug grounded me, steadying the trembling inside my chest.
"…Yeah…" I breathed, as if admitting it released something caged inside me.
Far from the suffocating wooden prison where I clung to a thread of hope, a very different scene unfolded.
In a grand, opulent room dripping with gold accents and the soft radiance of a crystal chandelier, two men stood shoulder-to-shoulder over a heavy wooden table. The polished surface was nearly hidden beneath maps, notes, hastily sketched routes, and red-circled locations.
The tension in the room was thick—urgent, electric.
"Sir Eiser, I found it!" one of the men exclaimed, voice tight with adrenaline. His gloved finger jabbed a spot on the largest map. "It's TAYTON, a city neighboring Wellenberg."
He slid a smaller note toward Eiser, continuing, "There's a long forest path that leads straight into the city—and there's a paint factory nearby."
Eiser leaned closer, the lamplight casting sharp shadows across his pale, focused face. "That fits what Lady Serena said about hearing machinery. This industrial complex operates late into the night." His voice was low, controlled, but threaded with tension.
"But the problem is…" the first man hesitated, unfolding an auxiliary sheet of notes. Two locations were circled boldly. "There's a forest and industrial complex in the opposite direction as well. And while that one is still technically part of Wellenberg, it matches her descriptions too."
Eiser's jaw tightened. "And the addresses of these two locations match two of Sir Victor's known hideouts." He exhaled slowly through his nose. "We now know for sure she's either on 8th Street in Missibet, Tayton, or 71st Street in Hellin Town, Wellenberg."
His eyes sharpened with a sudden spark of ingenuity. "Since Serena called us—even briefly—I can ask the telephone company to trace the line. Even if Victor registered the phone under false information, the connection logs should reveal something. A signal bounce. A relay point. Anything."
He paused.
A shadow crossed his expression—fear, frustration, and cold calculation intertwining.
"BUT THE PROBLEM IS…"
Time.
And the ruthlessness of the man they were pursuing.
Sir Eiser stood alone in the richly furnished room, the golden glow of the chandelier reflecting against polished mahogany walls, creating a sharp contrast to the storm raging inside him. His fingers hovered over the map, tracing the routes again and again, but nothing could still his mind.
Every time he blinked, he saw me—my trembling voice echoing in his ear, the faint, broken sound from the phone replaying like a stab straight to his chest.
"…HAVING HEARD HER TREMBLING VOICE…"
The thought cut through him like a razor. His jaw tightened, his breath sharp.
He could practically feel the fear in my voice, the exhaustion, the suffocating grip of despair. A fragile whisper from miles away had pierced him deeper than any blade.
"…I CAN'T BEAR TO WAIT FOR EVEN A MOMENT LONGER."
Raul, ever efficient and painfully aware of the stakes, didn't waste a second. He was already halfway to the door.
"NOW THAT WE HAVE A ROUGH IDEA OF WHERE SHE MIGHT BE, I WILL CONTACT THE PHONE COMPANY AT ONCE," Raul said, grabbing his coat, urgency thick in his voice. "LUCKILY, THE TWO LOCATIONS ARE IN DIFFERENT CITIES, SO THEY SHOULD BE ABLE TO FIGURE IT OUT A LOT QUICKER. I'LL BE BACK IN 15 MINUTES WITH THE INFORMATION!"
He bolted out of the room, the sound of his hurried footsteps fading with a swift DASH.
Eiser didn't move. Didn't breathe. Didn't look away from the map.
Fifteen minutes.
I didn't have fifteen minutes.
"NO, RAUL," he murmured to the empty room, though Raul was already long gone. The words were low, roughened by tension and barely restrained fear. "WE CAN'T DELAY. TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE."
Every second wasted gnawed at him. He had seen what Victor was capable of. He knew the kind of monster who had taken me. And the idea of me—alone, terrified, possibly hurt—set his nerves alight.
There was no time for bureaucracy. No time for the reliability of phone traces. No time for anything but action.
Raul reappeared in the doorway, breathless, stopping short as he caught the edge in Eiser's voice.
"SIR?"
Eiser didn't turn. His voice sliced through the air.
"THERE ARE ONLY TWO PLACES LEFT, SO WE'LL KEEP DOING WHAT WE'VE BEEN DOING AND SEND PEOPLE TO BOTH. GET THE BODYGUARDS I'VE NEWLY HIRED READY AND CONTACT THE POLICE AS WELL. IF YOU TALK TO LOVIS, HE'LL PROMPTLY HAVE OFFICERS ON STANDBY."
Raul's eyes widened at the sudden shift from strategy to full mobilization.
"R-RIGHT! UNDERSTOOD, SIR! SO YOU MEAN TO HAVE TWO TEAMS—ONE COMPRISED OF OUR BODYGUARDS AND THE OTHER OF POLICE OFFICERS—EACH SEARCH ONE OF THE TWO LOCATIONS?"
Eiser gave a curt, resolute nod. "WHICH SHOULD WE GO TO, TAYTON OR HELLIN TOWN?" he thought aloud, his mind racing.
He stood before the map, both fists braced on the table.
Two red circles. Two possible prisons. Two possible nightmares.
"WHICH OF THESE TWO PLACES…" he breathed, his voice barely audible, "…ARE YOU AT?"
His mind replayed every word I had said. The forest. Machinery. The smell of chemicals. The distant thrum of industrial activity. The cold air of the outskirts. The faint vibration in the wood.
He stared at the marked locations, narrowing them down in his head, his heartbeat thundering.
"GIVEN THE LOCATION, CHANCES ARE… WE—"
RRRRING!
The antique telephone on the side table shrieked to life, the sharp, metallic sound cutting straight through the tense silence like a blade.
Eiser's head snapped toward the ringing device.
A chance.
A trap.
A clue.
A disaster.
His pulse roared in his ears as the phone continued ringing—
And the scene ends right there.
Rrrring!
The shrill cry of the antique telephone ripped through the suffocating silence of the room.
Sir Eiser's head turned sharply toward the sound, his expression carved in cold stone.
He took one long, powerful STRIDE, the polished floor echoing beneath his shoes. The tension that had been coiled tight in the air snapped even tighter.
With a deliberate, almost ominous CLICK, he lifted the receiver.
Eiser said nothing.
Not a word.
Not even a breath.
He simply listened.
The receiver pressed against his ear, his jaw clenched, his piercing blue gaze fixed on nothing—and everything—at once.
The room held its breath.
Raul stared, bewildered, his heart hammering.
"HE'S LISTENING TO SOMETHING ON THE TELEPHONE, BUT NOT SAYING A SINGLE WORD…
DOESN'T SEEM LIKE IT'S A CALL FROM LADY SERENA…
WHO COULD IT BE?"
The silence continued only a few seconds, but it stretched long enough to put Raul's nerves on edge.
Then—
CLACK.
Eiser placed the receiver back into its cradle with finality.
A sharp, decisive sound.
A sound of knowledge received.
Of a conclusion reached.
Of a decision made.
Without acknowledging Raul, Eiser turned and walked away—calm, controlled, deadly.
"Sir?" Raul asked, stepping forward, fear and confusion twisting together in his expression.
Eiser didn't answer.
Instead, he slid one hand into his coat.
A faint, whispering FWISH came from the fabric.
Raul blinked.
Then he saw it.
Resting atop the dark, polished table beside where Eiser had been standing—cool, gleaming under the chandelier—was a sleek, silver handgun.
A weapon no civilian should possess.
A weapon Eiser had reached for out of instinct.
A weapon that meant only one thing:
He was preparing for blood.
Raul's breath caught.
"A GUN?! BUT IT'S ILLEGAL FOR CIVILIANS TO POSSESS GUNS…
FOR HOW LONG HAS HE OWNED ONE?"
The realization washed over him like ice water.
This was no longer a rescue mission.
It was a declaration of war.
Eiser straightened his impeccably tailored suit jacket, the movement smooth, elegant, terrifying.
Then he turned his eyes—cold, determined, absolute—toward Raul.
When he spoke, his voice was deep, firm, and final.
A command with the weight of iron.
"RAUL. SEND THE POLICE TO TAYTON."
Raul stiffened, then nodded sharply.
Of course.
The police would be a necessary maneuver—a diversion, a parallel strike, a way to split Victor's attention.
But Raul knew, in that moment, exactly what Eiser's true plan was.
Because Eiser's final words—spoken as he disappeared into the shadowed doorway—were not an order.
They were a vow.
A deadly, personal vow.
"WE'RE HEADING TO HELLIN TOWN."