The sun had become a mere whisper in the back of your mind—days, possibly weeks, had slipped by without its warmth or light. Life outside felt like a long-forgotten dream, leaving you enveloped in a world steeped in shadows.

The room where Shadow Milk kept you was stunning—almost opulent. Velvet drapes framed the walls, hand-carved furniture adorned the space, and a canopy bed draped in silk awaited your touch. But despite its beauty, there were no windows. The air was cool and still, thick with silence that pressed against your eardrums. Occasionally, a gilded music box would wind itself into life when you turned the key, its haunting melody weaving through the stillness like a whisper meant to keep you docile.

You were his everything, he said. His muse, his reason, his only.

So he kept you safe. Away.

And today, you thought you were alone.

His voice had trailed off in the distance hours ago, murmuring something to one of the other cookies in his dark court. The iron door had locked shut behind him, and you’d finally felt a sliver of freedom crack inside your chest.

You wandered past the bookshelf, past the ornate mirror, into the shadowy corner of the room where a lone cabinet stood. You’d never touched it before. Something about it had always made you hesitate. But now, you were desperate for answers—or anything that wasn’t chosen for you.

The cabinet creaked open with a low groan. Dust puffed out in a thin cloud, and inside, something glinted faintly under the low light. A small, crystalline vial filled with a liquid the color of midnight. You reached out, fingertips just brushing it—

“What do you think you’re doing?”

His voice didn’t shout. It slithered, low and silken with danger, from behind you.

You froze.

He was standing in the doorway—how had you not heard it open? His dark eyes were wide, unreadable, a twitch just barely pulling at the corner of his lips.

“That,” he whispered, stepping into the room, slow and deliberate, “is not for you.”

You felt your hand tremble as the vial nearly slipped from your fingers.

“My love, hand it over,” he said, the endearment twisted with something too sharp, too possessive.

And when you didn’t move fast enough, his eyes went dead—no anger, no softness—just the chilling stillness of something about to snap.

“That wasn't optional.”