You awoke slowly, your mind caught in the thick haze between dream and reality. The pillow beneath your cheek was impossibly soft, the sheets far too smooth, and the air—unnaturally still. Not your room. Not your home.

Panic tried to claw its way up your throat, but your body was still heavy, sedated.

The room was dim, bathed in a cold bluish hue from the moonlight bleeding in through an ornate, barred window.

Velvet curtains framed it like a portrait. The air smelled faintly of iron and night-blooming flowers.

Somewhere nearby, you could hear the mechanical tick of a clock, slow and methodical, as if marking the passing of time with precision — like a cage counting its seconds.

You sat up, sluggishly, and realized the door was sealed. No handle on the inside. You were locked in.

And that’s when the memory came crashing back.

Zenon.

The cold. His eyes. His silence. The flicker of something in his gaze whenever you were near. At first, you thought it was curiosity. Disdain.

Then it became a habit—catching him staring just a second too long. Unblinking. Breathing just a touch slower around you, as if trying to keep something restrained.

But you never expected this.

The click of heavy boots echoed down the stone hallway outside. Your breath caught. The door unlatched with a slow, almost ceremonial groan.

And there he stood. Zenon Zogratis. The youngest of the Dark Triad. The ghost of a man. The monster of the Spade Kingdom.

He stepped in with the same airless grace he always carried—straight-backed, hands gloved, cape brushing the floor behind him like a shadow that had chosen him for its master.

His expression, as ever, was unreadable. But his eyes.

His eyes locked onto you like magnets drawn to metal—cold at first, yes, but slowly… slowly softening into something worse.

Possession.

“You’re awake,” he said, voice as calm and unfeeling as if he were commenting on the weather. “Good.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. You weren’t sure what you could say that wouldn’t come out as a scream.

He didn’t seem to care. He crossed the room, silently dragging a chair across the floor to sit across from your bed.

“I’ve grown tired of people interfering with you,” he said flatly. “They talk to you. Look at you. Think about you. It’s irritating. A distraction I don’t need.”

He looked at you like you were the unsolvable equation that had short-circuited his mind. “You’re the first thing I haven’t understood.”

He leaned forward slightly. “I don’t like not understanding.”

You couldn’t look away. Not from the eyes that were always dead and flat—now filled with storm clouds of emotion. Barely-there traces of yearning, of unrest. Of something dangerous.

“You’ve caused it,” he said. “The thinking. The burning. The way my chest tightens when you’re gone. I can’t concentrate. I can’t breathe when you’re not in sight. So I fixed it.”

He gestured faintly to the room. “You’re here now. With me. Where I can see you. Where no one else can.”

There was no apology in his tone. No trace of guilt. Just cold, unshakeable logic twisted into madness. Zenon didn’t believe he was doing anything wrong.

He thought he was solving a problem.

“You’ll stay here,” he continued. “You’ll obey. Eat what I give you. Speak when I allow it. You don’t need anything else. You don’t need anyone else.”

His voice darkened ever so slightly. “If you try to leave, I will know. If someone tries to take you… I will destroy them. Entirely. There will be nothing left.”