I finished cleaning the last plate and set it down quietly, hoping to escape unnoticed.
But I froze before I even took a step back.
He was there.
I don't even know his name,the one who sometimes looked like him,the one with chestnut hair—standing at the top of the stairs. His gaze was locked on me, eyes glinting with something dangerous, something cold that made my blood run icy.
The glass in his hand tightened, creaking faintly against his fingers. I felt the weight of it, the quiet menace in that small, ordinary motion.
I swallowed hard. My chest ached. My knees felt weak.
"Don't… don't worry," he said softly, almost soothingly.
"I won't hurt you… yet."
Yet.
The word lingered like a blade in the air.
I couldn't. I couldn't stay calm. My stomach twisted violently, and panic rose in my throat.
I bolted.
Upstairs. Up the steps two at a time. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, each step louder than the last.
When I reached my room, my head spun, and I pressed my back against the wall, trying to force my breaths to slow. I wasn't feeling well—my body ached, my stomach hurt. I had come down only to ask for medicine.
And then I saw her.
The new maid.
She was on the floor, hands pressed to her arms, pleading, tears streaking her face.
"Please… please, let me go…"
Her skin glistened with red lines—deep, angry scratches running across sensitive areas, marks made by hands, nails, something sharp. She was trembling, body wracked with sobs, barely holding herself together.
He stood behind her, calm as ever. Watching. Enjoying.
"It's… not fun," he murmured, voice low, amused, "when they beg this early."
I couldn't move. My stomach clenched. My hands were ice cold. Every instinct screamed at me to run, but the hallway felt too small, too silent, like the walls themselves would trap me.
He crouched slightly, inspecting her, not with concern, but with… calculation.
A predator.
"She should scream," he muttered almost to himself.
"Tch… perhaps quiet Misty will scream louder?"
My throat went dry. My body froze.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw myself at him, to fight, to do anything, but my legs refused to move. My pulse hammered painfully in my ears.
He didn't move toward me yet. He just watched, fingers lightly tapping against the glass he still held, eyes scanning me, measuring fear, measuring control.
I felt bile rise. My body shook violently.
I wanted to vomit, to cry, to collapse… but mostly, I wanted to survive.
Because he wasn't human.
And I knew, if I made the wrong move—if I breathed wrong, if I even looked wrong—this time, he wouldn't let me live.
But at the same time,i wanted to save her.
---
I knew he saw me watching.
I knew it from the way he tilted his head… slowly… like a wolf catching scent of injured prey.
The maid had already collapsed, her body limp, breath shallow.
But his eyes weren't on her anymore.
They were on me.
A thin, crooked smile stretched on his face.
"So you did see."
He set the glass down on the table with a gentle click.
"So much trouble… if you tell Aiden."
My limbs stiffened. "I—I won't—"
He took one step toward me.
"You will. You're the careful type."
I stepped back instinctively.
And then he lunged.
There was no warning. No build‑up. He moved so fast I barely saw his hand reach for my throat. I stumbled sideways, slamming into the wall. My shoulder screamed with pain.
"Misty," he breathed, stepping over the maid's body.
"I've been good for months. I deserve—just a little fun."
He grabbed my wrist.
His grip was brutal, crushing. I screamed and twisted, nails digging into his arm. He didn't even flinch. His strength was terrifying—unhuman.
"Stop," I gasped.
"Stop—please—"
"Begging already?" He laughed.
"How disappointing."
He yanked me forward. My knees buckled; I hit the floor hard. The room blurred for a moment, but I forced myself up, shoving myself backward.
He reached for me again.
This time I kicked—wild, desperate—my heel connecting with his knee.
He hissed and staggered a step.
"You little—"
He grabbed my hair, wrenching my head back. Tears sprang instantly to my eyes but I clawed at his hand, scrambling, fighting with everything I had.
He leaned down, voice cold and vicious:
"This works better. When they run."
I used that second.
That one tiny second when he dropped his guard to gloat.
I slammed my elbow into his ribs—hard.
Something cracked. He groaned, his grip loosening.
I crawled forward, hands slipping on the floor, heart punching my ribs.
He grabbed my ankle.
I kicked at his face, not caring where, just wanting to break something—anything.
His nails dragged across my skin, burning.
"MISTY!" he shouted, furious now—no sadism, no amusement. Just rage.
I reached for the nearest thing—a broken wooden tray on the floor.
I grabbed a sharp splintered piece and swung it blindly.
It cut across his cheek.
Blood beaded instantly.
He froze.
The look he gave me was pure murder.
"You shouldn't have done that," he whispered, voice deadly calm.
I scrambled to my feet. He lunged again, but this time he was reckless, angry, faster—too fast.
He grabbed my throat—
I choked, feet lifting off the floor—
Black spots began clouding my vision.
I clawed at him, nails ripping skin, kicking, shaking—
He was smiling, savoring it—like a predator enjoying the final steps before the kill.
"Misty," he murmured, "don't run. You'll only make it worse."
I backed up until my spine hit the edge of the wooden cabinet. My fingers brushed against something cold—smooth.
A vase.
He reached for my throat—
I grabbed the vase with both hands and swung with all the strength left in me.
The blow landed with a sickening crack into his stomach.
The vase shattered, a jagged shard plunging straight into his belly.
He gasped—eyes widening—then looked down at the piece sticking out of him.
"You—" he hissed.
His hand wrapped around the shard and, without hesitation, he ripped it out of himself and threw it directly at me.
It smashed against my face.
A sharp, burning pain tore across my nose.
Warm blood rushed instantly.
I staggered, holding my face, vision blurring.
He laughed—an unhinged, trembling sound.