This has to be where Tristan keeps his secrets. His private playground. A place out of reach of prying eyes and unwanted witnesses.
At the end of the hallway, a door stands out—a single green light flashing above it.
I pause, narrowing my eyes. Were the other doors lit like this? No, I would’ve noticed.
This has to be it.
I know the hide and seek is meant to add to the tension, but right now all it’s doing is pissing me off. I want to play already.
The room assaults my senses the moment I step inside—cold, stark, and unnervingly bright. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, their pale glow sharp and clinical, like something out of a nightmare.
The air feels wrong, heavy with the sterile tang of disinfectant and something metallic. My gaze falls to the floor that’s covered in sheets of plastic.
What the?—
I freeze, my breath catching as I take in the scene before me.
A man lies sprawled on a metal table, his body restrained by thick, unyielding zip ties. The plastic beneath him is stained,hints of crimson smearing in uneven streaks. His wrists and ankles bear angry red marks, raw and swollen, proof of his struggle to try to break free.
A cold chill runs down my spin.
His chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, a sign that he is still alive. His eyes flutter as he struggles to stay awake. His skin is pallid, and his sweat-drenched suit is torn in half.
Beside the man is a tray of surgical tools on wheels—scalpels, forceps, nails. Some instruments I recognize, others I’ve never seen before. But I don’t need to see it to know that they’re not used for pleasure.
The man groans softly, his head lolling to the side. Either he’s the world’s greatest actor, or something is deeply wrong here.
The sharp crinkle of plastic snaps my attention to the far side of the room. Someone is approaching the table.
A small, delicate figure walks toward the man in unhurried movements. Heels clicking softly against the floor, toenails painted an innocent shade of pink. I don’t know why I notice such a detail right now. This is probably a very twisted, kinky game.
It has to be, right?
The person is encased in a poofy yellow plastic suit, the kind that swishes and rustles with every step. It makes them seem alien, even more unsettling. But it’s the creepy mask that stops my breath.
Unlike the elegant, sleek masks the rest of us wear, this one is grotesque—distorted and stained with streaks of fake blood. The mouth hangs open in a hideous droop, as if melting under an invisible sun, the hollow eyes dark and unblinking.
When they turn, I finally get the confirmation I’ve been waiting for.
Pin-straight blonde hair brushes the top of their shoulders, a sharp contrast to the gruesome mask. Dangling diamondearrings catch the light, a touch of elegance in this nightmare. More piercings line her ear, leading to a small tattoo—a cluster of four dots—just behind her lobe.
It’s a woman.
Definitely a woman.
If you’re going to commit murder, maybe don’t get a tattoo or at least cover it up.
Don’t jump to conclusions.
Some people like intense shit and this would be the perfect place to get your fill.
She moves so slowly and with a certain calm grace, as if she’s enjoying herself. Rolling up his sleeves, she sticks a needle in his arm and appears to be drawing blood. The man groans, the thick leather strap across his forehead prohibits him from moving.
Once she’s done, she removes her gloves, places the vile of blood on the tray and reaches for a scalpel.
“Any last words?”
He mumbles, struggling to come to. “I’m an important man. People will come looking for me.”
