The click of the door closing behind Rulien was the sound of her world shrinking to the size of this single, opulent room. The scent of him—cold, clean, and cruel—lingered in the air for a moment before dissipating, leaving her alone with the echo of his final, chilling command.
Perform well, Nightingale.
Clara stood motionless, a statue carved from moonlight and terror, her gaze fixed on her own ghostly reflection in a silver platter. The girl in the reflection was beautiful, serene, and utterly empty. A perfect doll. A perfect lie.
Beneath the placid surface, a new, cold fire was burning. The desperate pleas, the childish hope for mercy—all of it had been burned away, leaving behind the hard, unyielding steel of her resolve. She would survive. And she would run.
The door opened again, this time without a sound.
