A figure shaped by silence and glow—motionless in the doorway, like a vision rendered in flesh. She wasn't beautiful in a traditional sense. She was… unreal. As though someone had painted her from memory, but imperfectly—too refined, too specific.
Her lips, a bruised red. Her eyes, sharp and liquid brown, turned to him with both caution and command. Her hair—longer than reason—was sectioned into three flowing rivers: one down her back, two draped across her chest like living arms protecting sacred ground.
She wore white. Thin. Weightless. The light teased at its seams, and for a second too long, he saw the curve beneath—the slow, dangerous reveal that suggested far more than it gave. Her back pulled the dress inward. Her spine shaped its fall.
Her presence hit him like a memory he hadn't formed yet.
And then… she blinked.
Her eyes lingered. Not out of curiosity, but recognition. She had already seen. Everything. His nakedness. His pause. His unfinished restraint. He shifted his arms to cover himself, but the attempt only deepened the intimacy already exchanged.
"Sorry, Sir…"
The words drifted, barely audible.
She dipped her head, the corners of her lips twitching as if catching the edge of a smile she wasn't supposed to have. Her eyes flicked one last time toward his waist—swift, involuntary.
"I'll… come back later," she murmured.
And turned.
Her departure felt rehearsed. Her laughter—soft, defiant—was caught and stretched by the room's silence. It wrapped around him like a ribbon pulled too tightly.
He stood there—naked, breathless, no longer from the chill.
Then, urgency.
He dashed to the wardrobe, fingers moving with muscle memory. Clothes on, fast but precise. He faced the mirror, adjusted his collar, gave a nod. A man reclaimed.
Now, when he stepped, the floor listened. The soles of his shoes struck marble with the confidence of a king awakening from battle.
Though she had gone, her shadow remained. The scent of her lingered. Her silhouette danced across the bed each time he blinked. Her sounds—breathy, strained, dangerously fragile—echoed in his bones.
He shook it off. Violently.
SLAM!
The door crashed shut behind him like a final verdict. The room shook, as though the structure itself recoiled from his presence.
From below—movement. Voices. Clinks. The waking rhythm of a house coming alive.
To others, it might have sounded chaotic. To him, it was ritual. Harmony. Discipline. An orchestra warming up before a funeral.
He moved toward the staircase, each step deliberate. The tap, tap, click of his shoes echoed with force. Then came the third beat—his rod, sleek and metallic, striking in sync.
Click. Click. Click.
He descended like a judge into his courtroom.
And then—a voice.
Hers.
Thin. Airy. Polite. With shame curling beneath it like smoke.
"Sir… we are ready. Sorry again for intruding…"
She stood near the grand door, eyes lowered, fingers clenched at her waist. The tiles beneath her feet shimmered faintly in the morning light. Her head never rose, yet her presence filled the air.
As he passed her, his hand brushed her shoulder—barely a touch, but it carried weight. She stiffened. Her breath paused. Neither moved, but the moment crackled, pulled tight like a wire ready to snap.
Then, he stepped inside.
The room was vast. Alive with movement. Women moved like shadows—each uniquely shaped, each bearing that same unmistakable scent. Not perfume. Something older. Shared.
Some wore full black, veiled in silence. Others in skirts and white tops, cleaning with mechanical rhythm. Yet none of them truly looked… ordinary. They were curated. Cultivated.
Then—stillness.
As his foot touched the floor, all motion stopped.
Heads dipped. A hum spread through the space—not speech, not song, but a strange, unified breath. Like the room itself acknowledged him.
"Good day, Sir…"
In perfect unison. As though trained by time itself.
He smiled, not with arrogance, but satisfaction. His eyes scanned the room. Then—he stopped.
The couch. The one from the night before.
Something rested on it. Small. Still. Out of place.
Time seemed to bend around it.
The foam had darkened, changed. Marked. The women had cleaned around it deliberately. They'd left it untouched.
An object, or maybe a memory, sat waiting—quiet, but insistent. Not forgotten.
Not forgiven.
That's when he noticed it—an odd scrap of deep blue-black fabric, half-buried in the cushion's creases. The edges were torn, uneven, the texture worn with time or tension. To another, it might have seemed like discarded cloth, but he knew better.
He recognized the material. And he recognized what it meant.
Slowly, a smile unfurled across his face—not triumphant, but reflective. A warmth spread across the hardened lines of his lips. The shift in energy was immediate, subtle yet contagious. Around him, breath caught. Some of the women instinctively touched their chests; others lifted their hands to their faces, as though something sacred had stirred the air.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His presence alone reshaped the room—like gravity bending the path of stars.
A low, almost imperceptible laugh rippled from his throat.
"Hehehe."
He could see their expressions in the reflection across the mirrored wall—silent, breathless, desire tightly caged behind composed features. His smile deepened for a heartbeat, playing with the idea of their longing—fantasies ignited in silence.
But then, he blinked. Reality returned, and he stepped forward.
Each clash of his staff against the floor rang like prophecy. The clawed base scraped the polished surface, unleashing a high, metallic screech—less a sound, more a shiver slicing through the silence. It was the voice of something ancient.
And still—they watched.
His stride.
The menace in his grace.
The narrative woven in his every breath.
He arrived at the layered wall—its carvings sacred, its trophies and ornaments a timeline of power. Some earned. Others taken. All kept.
The fire heater above glowed faintly, as if its memory still radiated warmth. He lowered the staff between his feet, palms resting atop its head like a man consulting time itself. Through the silk of his gloves, his pulse was steady—human, yet tinged with something older.
He stared at the frames.
Not just decoration. They were relics—memories sculpted into form. Some frames were regal, gleaming with reverence. Others were scarred and crooked, twisted with war and grief. Each held a fragment of soul: moments won, moments lost, and moments never allowed to fade.
He stood, unblinking.
Each frame echoed a different emotion—joy, sorrow, rage, betrayal. They whispered as if they knew he had returned not to admire, but to remember. And mourn.
"How I wish they were all here," he said, voice a rough hush. "To see what I've become."
The air stilled. The silence hardened like glass.
His hands clenched the staff. Veins pressed against glove. Each name he remembered sent fresh weight into his bones. His staff bit deeper into the stone beneath, grinding against the floor like it too remembered.