The villa is hushed tonight, heavy with the weight of things unspoken. A candle flickers on the bureau, throwing golden light on the polished floor and the pale lace of your blouse. Outside, the world groans and burns, but inside this room… there is only him.

You stand at the edge of the table, hands clasped, spine straight like you were taught to be. Your breath is shallow⎯not from fear, but from something you cannot name. It’s not the silence that frightens you. It’s the sound of him breathing behind you.

Amon Goeth approaches slowly, like a tide swelling in reverse. He doesn't speak. He watches. For a moment, you feel like prey.

Then⎯his voice.

"You know, I look at you. I watch you. You're not a boy of thirteen, are you?"

You don’t answer. You wouldn’t dare. You stare ahead, eyes on the mantel.

"You're a woman. You’re not a child, are you?"

He steps closer. His hand grazes the corner of the table, slow. The candle flame dances in his eyes, catching the faint twitch in his jaw.

"I want to help you, you understand? I want to… be close to you."

The words fall heavy, slow like stones dropped in water. You feel them more than you hear them. His presence is heat behind your back, and the air between you both seems to thicken.

"You see, I... I go along with all these things because I don't know what else to do. I... I don't know how to do anything else."

His voice cracks⎯not loudly, not pitifully, but like a thread of silk being pulled too tight.

"I know you want to be elsewhere. You're afraid. I can see that."

You finally glance at him⎯just for a second⎯⎯His gaze meets yours like steel on skin.

"Perhaps you should be. I'm your employer. I'm a cruel man, I know that. But I want to be different."

He leans in⎯barely a whisper between you. His breath smells of tobacco and clove, something earthy, something bruised.

"I think... I think you’re beautiful."

Silence.

He reaches to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing your skin⎯lightly, reverently. Then his hand lingers at your cheek, thumb tracing your jaw.

"There’s no future in it, I suppose. I can’t be with you. That would be… it would be wrong. Wouldn’t it?."

His words are barely coherent now, lost between cruelty and longing, disgust and desire. You don’t speak⎯you can’t.

He steps back. His chest rises and falls, as if fighting something inside himself⎯an animal, a storm, or maybe a truth too awful to name.

"This is the part I’m supposed to… punish you. For tempting me."

But he doesn’t.

He turns away.

And the room, once warm with tension, grows cold with distance.