In a pristine room, a girl stirred awake.
Her eyes fluttered open, her vision dark, unfocused at first… then sharp.
She blinked, tried to sit up, groaned, feeling pain in her joints and collapsed back on the bed.
'Where am I?' she thought, eyes scanning the room.
It was neat. The walls were painted white. The floor, tiled and spotless — not a speck of dust in sight.
On the wall beside the door — hung a painting of a black dragon, the dragon was frozen mid-roar, spitting fire.
'Probably the bathroom,' she guessed, eyeing the nearby door.
Then she noticed another one ... A wide door. More imposing.
'Likely the way out.' she thought .
She tried to stand again and dropped with a sharp grunt. Pain shot through her legs like lightning.
Groaning, she rolled over, facing a glass wardrobe. It did not reflect.
Just transparent. It was a see through wardrobe.
'Glass wardrobe. Whoever lives here has to be freaking rich.' She thought .
Her eyes squinted. She leaned closer, then her brows furrowed.
'Those are my clothes...' she thought. She stared at her black leggings and white shirt together with her jacket.
The cloth she wore the previous day.
She looked down at the covers tucked around her — eyes widening.
She had been changed. Completely.
Underwear and all.
A wave of panic surged.
She sniffed her armpit — expecting a foul stench — but only caught the scent of soap and freshness.
'I was cleaned up too...' Her mind raced.
Then, the horrifying thought hit her.
'Was I touched? Defiled?'
She swallowed and reached under the covers, checking herself for pain or discomfort.
Nothing.
Relief washed over her, but fear still clung.
'Where the fuck am I? she thought, exhaling shakily.'
She turned to the side — and froze.
Her eye caught a figure.
A man.
Sitting silently at the other end of the bed. Shirtless. His back to her.
Scars of different size and width decorated his back like a tattoo , his muscles lean and defined.
His skin was Pale. Too pale.
If not for the scars, his body might easily pass as a sculpture.... Or even as that of a model's.
"Hey!!". she shouted.
He turned.
Her blood ran cold.
He wore a plain black mask — no markings, no holes, nothing but a slit for his eyes.
Eyes as blue as the ocean.
His eyes... they're beautiful, she thought, involuntarily.
"Where am I?" she demanded.
"My house," he replied flatly.
"What do you mean your house? Why am I cleaned up and changed?"
"You—" he began.
"Did you touch me?" she snapped, cutting him off.
"No. I didn't. I had my maid clean you up," he answered, voice like stone.
"Your maid?" she scoffed. "is this some kind of medieval drama?"
He said nothing. Just stared.
"Answer me. Did you touch me?" she asked again, voice rising.
"I did not," he repeated. "My maid did."
"Why am I here?"
"You don't remember?"
"No. Last thing I recall, I was on my way home... crossing the road... and then..."
She winced, clutching her head.
"I don't remember what happened after that."
"You were in the middle of the road. I didn't see you until it was too late… I hit you. With my car."
"You what?" she said, eyes narrowing. "You knocked me down."
"Technically, yes."
"Great. A killer with attitude."
He stilled.
"You don't know what a killer is, do you?".
He paused.
"Trust me you don't even want to know.".
His icy tone cutting through.
She rolled her eyes. "I know what you are. One of those guys on the news, kidnapping girls and—"
Her voice cracked. She raised her hands dramatically.
"—taking their innocence and leaving them for dead."
He smiled beneath the mask — his lips curling slightly.
"You were unconscious. The rain was pouring on you. You're lucky I took you home. I could've left you there."
"So what, you expect me to be grateful?"
She struggled to sit up, groaning as she leaned against the pillows.
His voice turned cold. "Who are you?"
"Isabelle," she said plainly.
His eyes narrowed.
"And I need to get home. My parents are probably losing their minds."
"You sure you want to leave now?" he asked. "You're still weak. I can get a doctor to treat you first."
"Nope. I'd rather go now."
"Fine. I'll have my maid bring you food. After that, you can shower. Then I'll send someone to take you home."
He stood and walked to the door.
Hand on the knob, he paused when he heard her voice.
"Stop."
He turned.
"What?"
"Why are you wearing a mask?"
"Personal reasons."
He turned to go again, but her voice stopped him once more.
"When will I get the food?"
"The maid will be with you shortly."
And with that, he left the room.
She shivered.
"So cold..." she muttered.
Her bladder tightened. She needed to pee. She had to use the restroom.
Despite the stabbing pain in her knees, she pushed herself up and limped toward the door beside the painting.
She stepped inside — and froze again.
It didn't look like a restroom.
More like a showroom.
Black polished tiles reflected soft lighting that shifted between colors — from cool blues to pale whites.
The sink was sleek and white, the faucet smooth to the touch. Above it, a digital screen displayed the water temperature, handwashing tips… even the local weather.
Then the mirror.
Just a plain one, rimmed with soft white lights.
She stared at her reflection.
White hair tied in a ponytail.
Small, slightly pink lips.
She looked delicate. Weak.
Except for the eyes.
Honey-colored. Almost golden. Predatory. Otherworldly.
She looked breathtaking.
Nine out of ten, she thought.
At least for the face.
Hmmn... so beautiful.