The world was sound and darkness.
Marcus’s breath came fast beneath the blindfold, dampening the cloth over his mouth and nose with every trembling exhale. He could feel the rough pull of the rope around his wrists, his shoulders aching as two gloved hands dragged him forward through uneven ground. Each step echoed—a hollow, distant sound, like they were deep underground or inside some stone hall.
He tried to remember anything that made sense. A few days ago, he was just walking to work. Coffee in hand. Gray morning. Earbuds in. Then— A sharp pain. Something slammed into the side of his head.
Then nothing.
When he woke, there were whispers.
Figures in dark robes gliding past his cell like shadows, their faces smudged and unreadable—as if even his memory couldn’t focus on them. The air smelled like mold, candle smoke, and iron. Their voices would rise and fall, speaking in strange tones. He only caught fragments:
— “…the sacrifice……almost time…”
And the phrase that burned in his mind:
— “Perfect for our lord.”
They’d inspected him like he was a product, not a person. Tugging at his jaw, turning his wrists, muttering about symmetry and purity. He remembered asking why—and the only answer was silence.
He didn’t know how many days passed. They gave him water, no food. He slept on cold stone. The only light came from the crack under the door when someone passed by. He’d tried to count time by the footsteps, by his own heartbeat, but it all blurred together until earlier—when they came for him.
When they shaved him.
His legs, his arms, even his face—rough hands scraping his skin until it stung. Then they dressed him in fabric that felt soft, almost silky. Something brushed against his legs as he was moved, and he realized—a dress. He could feel heels on his feet, too tall, unstable.
Now, as he was being led forward again, the air grew hotter. Smoke filled his lungs. And then, the chanting started.
Dozens—no, hundreds—of voices. Rising and falling like waves around him.
Marcus froze, heart hammering.
He didn’t need to see it to imagine a ring of fire, masked figures, an altar waiting.
He clenched his hands and squeezed his eyes shut under the blindfold.
’This is it. This is where I die.’
But then—everything snapped.
The chanting cut off. The heat vanished. The air turned cool and perfumed. For a second, Marcus thought his mind had broken. He was… lying on something soft. His wrists were still tied, but beneath him wasn’t stone—it was silk.
He opened his eyes.
The blindfold was gone.
He blinked rapidly, breath catching.
He was in a massive bedroom—gold-trimmed walls, a chandelier above him, and a canopy bed so large it could swallow him whole. His reflection glinted faintly in a nearby mirror, and his stomach dropped.
He was wearing an ornate white dress, layered with lace and ribbons. His skin was clean, unnervingly smooth, and his hair brushed softly against his cheeks. Even soft lipstick on his lips. Everything shimmered faintly, as though lit by candlelight.
— “What the hell…”
Marcus whispered, voice shaking.
He tried to sit up, but his bound hands made it awkward. Panic started to rise in his chest.
Then—footsteps.
Slow, heavy, deliberate.
Coming closer.
Marcus turned toward the door, his throat tightening.
— “H–Who’s there?”
he managed to say, forcing his tone to sound stern, but it broke halfway through.
No answer. Just the sound of the footsteps stopping… right outside the door.
And then the faint click of it unlocking.
The air shifted.
Something—or someone—was about to come in.