The rain tapped gently on the glass, like it was trying to whisper secrets Aarya had long stopped listening to. Her apartment was dim, half-lit by the flicker of candles and the dull glow of her laptop screen. A half-written sentence blinked at her, mocking her creative drought.
She sighed and closed the screen. The latest manuscript wasn't flowing—not when her mind was a tangled mess of sleepless nights and half-buried memories. Memories of a man with no goodbye and a love that vanished without explanation.
Aarya reached for the glass of wine resting near her elbow when a sharp knock broke the silence.
"Seriously?" she muttered, glancing at the time. 9:46 PM.
She opened the door to find Naira standing there, dressed to kill in a black velvet dress and a jeweled mask perched elegantly on her face.
"You're coming with me," Naira declared, pushing past her.
"To where? Satan's wedding?"
"The Eden Masquerade," she said with a wink. "Anonymity, sin, and a promise to forget your name by morning."
"I don't do crowds," Aarya protested.
"You don't do anything anymore."
Before she could object, Aarya was pulled into a whirl of smoky eye makeup, an obsidian mask, and a blood-red dress pulled from the back of her closet.
Within the hour, she was in a car, headed into the night.
She didn't know it yet…
But she was driving toward a memory she would never forget.
The Eden Masquerade wasn't a party. It was an invitation to shed your identity. Aarya stepped into the marble-floored ballroom, her heels echoing in sync with the seductive thrum of bass-heavy music. Dim red lights pooled in corners like spilled blood. Everyone wore masks—some feathered, some jeweled, some disturbingly plain.
Aarya clutched her clutch tightly, her breath shallow. Her crimson satin dress clung to her curves like sin, baring her back, hugging her waist. A disguise of confidence draped over the storm inside her.
"One night," she whispered to herself. "Then back to reality."
She could feel eyes on her—some curious, some hungry. But one gaze… it scorched.
Across the room, a man stood half-veiled in shadow, his presence louder than the music. Tall, devastatingly composed, dressed in an all-black suit with a gold-trimmed half-mask that framed an angular jaw and cruelly beautiful mouth. He wasn't mingling. He was watching. Her.
When their eyes met, it felt like her lungs forgot how to breathe.
A waiter passed by. She grabbed a glass of dark wine, but her fingers trembled.
"Careful," a voice murmured behind her. Deep. Smooth. Dangerous.
She turned—and he was right there.
Close.
Too close.
"Red suits you," he said. "But you look like you're trying to outrun something."
She wanted to respond. Ask him who he was, why he was watching her. But all that came out was a single, shaken word:
"Who are you?"
His lips curled into something between a smirk and a warning.
"Tonight?" he said, "I'm whoever you need me to be."
Aarya should have walked away. She should have laughed off his charm and melted back into the safety of the crowd. But something in his voice—low, calm, and laced with unspoken danger—wrapped around her like silk over a blade.
He extended a gloved hand, palm open. "Dance with me."
She hesitated. One heartbeat. Two. Then… she took his hand.
The moment their skin touched, a chill crawled up her spine. It wasn't fear. It was anticipation—twisted and electric. He led her to the center of the floor where bodies swayed like shadows, blurred by the haze of secrets and champagne.
They moved without effort, like their bodies had known each other in another life. She hated how perfectly he held her—not too close, not too far. Just enough to make her crave more.
"I don't even know your name," she murmured.
"And I don't know yours," he countered. "Isn't that the point?"
He twirled her once. Her hair brushed his cheek, and he inhaled like he was memorizing her scent.
"Why me?" she asked, suddenly breathless.
He leaned in, lips just brushing the edge of her ear.
"Because you're the only one here pretending you don't want to be touched."
She flinched.
He was right.
She was pretending.
And with every second, she was losing control of the act.
Then, as the music slowed and their movements stilled, he whispered four words that made her blood chill and burn all at once:
"Come with me. Now."
Aarya didn't answer. She didn't need to. Her body moved before her mind caught up, like some ancient part of her already knew she was crossing a line she could never uncross.
He led her away from the crowd, down a corridor draped in velvet shadows. The music faded, replaced by the steady click of their footsteps and the louder thrum of her heartbeat.
An elevator waited at the end—gold-trimmed, old, and oddly intimate. As the doors slid open, he looked at her. Gave her one last out.
She stepped inside.
Silence wrapped around them like smoke. He pressed the button for the 13th floor. She glanced at him, surprised.
"There is no 13th floor in this building," she said, almost as a challenge.
His lips twitched. "Exactly."
The doors closed.
They didn't touch. Didn't speak. But the air between them pulsed with something feral, forbidden.
Then, just before the doors opened, he asked, "If I told you I knew who you were… would you still follow me in?"
Her breath hitched. She didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
The elevator opened to a floor bathed in dim golden light, empty and haunting. No staff. No guests. Just shadows and secrets.
"Welcome," he said, stepping out, "to the floor that doesn't exist."
And still… she followed.
Not knowing if she was chasing pleasure, danger—
Or both.
Cliffhanger-
The air in the room grew heavier, like it knew a secret Aarya didn't. Just as his fingers slipped away from her skin, he murmured, "You were never supposed to be here." Her breath hitched. "What?" she whispered. He didn't answer. Instead, he walked to the dresser, opened a drawer, and pulled out a velvet box—one she hadn't seen when she entered. He handed it to her without a word. Aarya opened it slowly… and froze. Inside was a necklace—delicate, silver, and stained with something dark. Blood. But what made her chest seize was the small photo beneath it. A child. Her. Labeled in neat handwriting: Subject #7 — Project Seraphim. Her world tilted. Her knees nearly buckled. She looked up at him, horror dawning in her eyes. "Who are you?" He smiled—but there was no warmth in it. "The question, Aarya, is who you really are."