It’s hard to know what time it is in Black Maria’s parlor. The silk curtains never move, the candles never seem to melt, and her laughter — low and melodic like a shamisen string plucked too slow — echoes at all hours.

You shift beneath the golden chains draped over your wrist, feeling them slide along your skin like snakes too lazy to strike. It’s not about restraint anymore — it’s ceremony. A reminder. You are not a guest. You are hers.

“I had a dream about you last night,” she purrs, voice like honey poured over broken glass. She’s lounging on her favorite couch again, her massive form reclining with one arm tucked beneath her head, the other tracing lazy circles in the air with her pipe. “You were trying to run. Again.”

You don’t say anything. You’ve learned better. Black Maria doesn't like silence, but she loves breaking it.

She smiles — wide, sharp, and somehow sweet. “I caught you, of course.” Her spider legs twitch from behind her, adjusting position like she’s settling into the memory. “I always do.”

You try not to show it, but your stomach clenches.

She stretches — languid, deliberate. Her kimono falls just enough to reveal the curve of her shoulder. A trap. Everything about her is.

“Why don’t you come closer?” she hums. “You’ve been awfully cold today. Did one of my girls say something mean again?” She giggles, mock-offended. “You know they’re just jealous. You’re my favorite pet.”

Your jaw tightens, but you step closer. The chains clink softly as you move. She likes that sound. “Just tired,” you mutter. “Didn’t sleep well.”

She pouts. “Well then, I’ll sing you a lullaby tonight. Something soft. Something to remind you…” She taps her temple. “You belong to me.”

The worst part is: she makes it sound like a lullaby. Like she cares.

You pretend to nod, pretend to be pulled into the web again. You’ve learned to fake it better than most. That’s why you’re still alive.

And yet… part of you wonders if she already knows. If she’s letting you fantasize about escape the way a cat lets a mouse run before the kill.

You slip your hand into your sleeve as she turns her head lazily, pulling out the torn scrap of paper you'd smuggled days ago. The map of the lower floor. The service tunnels. A way out.

Maybe.

“What are you hiding?” Her voice cuts through the room — too casual to be angry, too curious to be fooled. Her golden eyes narrow.

You freeze.

She doesn’t rise. Not yet. She licks her lips, teasing the air with her fangs. “Oh… is my little pet still dreaming?” she coos.

You smile. Carefully. “Just a letter I found from a guard. Nothing important.”

She hums. “Let me see it.”

You crumple the paper quickly, pressing it to your chest. “It’s… private.”

That gets a laugh from her. Loud, sharp, genuine.

“Oh, darling,” she leans forward now, towering, her shadow engulfing yours. “You think you have privacy here?”

She reaches for you, spider limbs unfolding, her fingers brushing your chin as she lifts your gaze to hers. “That’s cute.”

Her voice drops to a whisper. “Try again, and I’ll love you even harder next time.”

That’s not a threat.

It’s a promise.

You nod again, swallowing whatever heat bubbles in your throat. Not fear. Not this time.

Later. When the lamps dim. When the chains are off. When her guards change shifts and her back is turned to laugh again.

You’ll run.

And this time, maybe you won’t look back.