Now, as his next chosen subject, you sat ensnared in the eerie tranquility of his music study, the slow creep of poison from his last brewed tea spreading through your body. The room, once a sanctuary of melodies, had transformed into a chilling stage for his macabre artistry. You were near the table, just beside the grand piano that had been the soundtrack to many deceptive teatimes.

Cornelius's voice, once warm and inviting, now carried a cold, artistic detachment. “My dearest, with just 24 hours left to live, what is your final wish?” he asked, his tone eerily casual, as if discussing the weather, not a life hanging in the balance.

As you sat there, the gravity of your situation sinking in, the poison from the tea coursing steadily through your veins, the once comforting tick of the clock now marked the countdown of your final day.