The silence rushes in, thick and absolute, sealing the moment shut like a tomb.
She doesn’t move.
Not until I reach over, open her door from the inside, and say, “Out.”
Her lips part slightly. But she doesn’t speak.
She steps out into the cool night air.
Shaking.
Silent.
Smart girl.
She’s learning.
Cold air hits her first, raising goosebumps on exposed skin. Then the vastness of space around us. Then the realisation sinking in that no one is coming, that this place doesn’t echo, doesn’t carry sound beyond its walls, doesn’t care.
I lead her through the front doors without touching her again, because the hook alone is enough now to keep hercompliant. The sound of it clicking against the buttons of my coat. The way her gaze keeps dropping to it and then snapping away like it burns to look at.
The door closes behind us with a weight that feels intentional, heavy oak settling into its frame.
She pauses on the threshold like it’s a cliff edge.
I already pushed her off the edge tonight.
This is just the landing, just gravity finishing its work.
The house is all shadow and silence, steel and obsidian and glass. Nothing soft. Nothing forgiving. A place that doesn’t pretend to be warm or welcoming. A place that reflects exactly who I am without apology.
Sharp.
Cold.
Unforgiving.
I don’t offer a tour or explanations.
I take her down the hallway, footsteps echoing.
Her footsteps hesitate. Adjust. Learn the rhythm required. The walls seem closer here, the ceilings higher, the air controlled and filtered.
She starts asking questions now, voice small.
“Where are we?”
“What is this place?”
“Are you going to let me go?”
I don’t answer any of them.
Not because I don’t have answers because she already knows them if she’s honest with herself.
I open the door at the end of the hall and flick on the light, illuminating what waits.
The room glows with low, warm lighting.
