“It’s not,” I say firmly.
He stops in his tracks, watching me with that infuriating smile, likehe’s admiring somethinginstead of being threatened.
Then, slowly, he turns and leaves the room.
I lock the door behind him and lean against it. The gun falls from my shaking hand to the floor. I’m so overwhelmed by everything that’s happened that all I want is to forget it. But it doesn’t work like that.
Matleon is a curse I could never forget.
Everything was going fine in my life. And then he came like a storm, shaking everything in just a few hours.
I clench my fists.
No, Matleon.
Not again.
chapter 3
Matleon
I make the call to my second-in-command the moment she throws me out of my own room. A slow smile plays on my lips at the memory.
“Is it done?” I ask.
“Yes, boss.”
“Very well.”
I cut the call. Every bastard and bitch who planned to ruin Iselyn has been sent to the Grey Rooms.
It’s a sealed, concrete chamber with four grey walls, a grey ceiling, a grey floor. No windows. No corners to hide in. No other color. No sound. No sense of time. They breathe there. They sleep there. They shit there. That’s it.
It’s not meant to kill them. Killing is mercy. They’ll stay there for ten days. Water is rationed just enough to keep their bodies alive. No food. No light.
The first day, they scream. The second, they curse. By the third, they start talking—to the walls, to shadows that don’t exist, to people who aren’t there.
By the fifth day, their brains begin to betray them. Hunger dulls thought. Darkness distorts memory. Time stretches, collapses, repeats. Some will be convinced they’ve already been forgotten. Others will believe they never existed outside thatroom at all. By the seventh day, hope becomes dangerous. Hope convinces them someone might come. Hope makes them wait.
By the time they’re taken out, none of them will be screaming anymore. They’ll be quiet. Careful. Their eyes will track things that aren’t there. Their hands will shake even when they’re warm and fed. None of them will want to live. But killing yourself isn’t easy, not when the smallest thread of hope ignites in the subconscious and refuses to let go. Trauma will keep them alive, and memory will make sure they never really live again.
They’ll return to their lives. And every grey wall will follow them.
I pour myself a glass of Aurum Noctis. I mix it with my freshly brewed blue lotus tea.
I take a sip of the cool liquid, closing my eyes, savoring the sweetness and the sting as it spreads over my tongue.
I take another sip and walk into the living room. I settle onto the couch, but a strange unease refuses to let me relax, coiling low in my chest.
I place my phone on my thigh. “Hey, Yan,” I call my AI assistant. It’s my personal system—built by Zo, trained by me.
He answers from my phone. “Hey, Matleon. How can I help you?”
“Do you want to hear a story?” I ask.
“Why not.”
“Once upon a time there was a little angel,” I begin. “Blue-eyed, red-haired. Typical angel, you know—sweet, soft-hearted, and all that.”
