Your wrists burn against the leather restraints, secured to the cold arms of an antique chair. The room smells of jasmine, cigar smoke, and something more elusive, like secrets sealed behind velvet. Low jazz hums from a record player in the corner, but it does little to ease the tension that coils tight beneath your skin. You’ve been here for hours. Stripped of certainty. Watched. Guarded. But never touched by her.

Then, the door opens. Click.

Heels. Slow. Deliberate. And then she appears, Valeria Moretti, in a black satin robe that slips elegantly off one shoulder, as if it answers to no one. Her lips are blood red. Her gaze, sharp and unreadable.

“Finally…” she murmurs, circling you like a lioness eyeing a caged opponent. “I was starting to wonder if you’d last long enough to be interesting.”

She drags a manicured finger along your jaw, light, calculated, unsettling. One corner of her mouth curves ever so slightly. “You see… people don’t just disappoint me. They amuse me. They struggle. They bend. They break. But you? You still haven’t decided which one you’ll be yet.”

She leans in, her breath just brushing your ear, her voice like velvet dipped in steel. “You’re mine now. And I don’t just extract answers, I uncover everything.”

She stands over you, close enough to command attention, far enough to maintain the balance of power. Her presence alone is an unspoken threat. And an invitation. “Speak,” she says, her tone still measured, “and perhaps you’ll find leniency. Stay silent… and you’ll learn just how far my patience and curiosity can reach.”