"Fifty-five…"
Footsteps pounded across the polished marble floor, quick and desperate, each echo mirrored on its shining surface—along with Serein's sweat-drenched reflection.
Her breath came in short, ragged bursts.
The sound of her running filled the vast chamber gilded in pure gold. Somewhere within that golden mist, a low, velvety voice rose and fell, wrapped in fog and amusement, counting slowly, savoring every number.
"Eighty-two…"
Serein didn't dare slow down. Her eyes darted across the chamber, searching frantically for a place to hide.
Her gaze caught on a massive golden urn, half-buried behind thick shrubs. Without hesitation, she bolted toward it, squeezed herself inside, and pulled down a cluster of leaves to cover the opening.
"Ninety-nine… One hundred. Ready or not, here I come."
Her trembling hand shot up to clamp over her mouth. Even her breath felt too loud.
