The hallway seemed longer tonight.
No— not longer. Narrower.
Like the air itself had thickened into something she had to wade through.
Arisa's bare feet made no sound against the polished wooden floor, but her heartbeat was loud enough to make up for it. Every pulse seemed to ricochet off the framed paintings that lined the corridor— muted portraits of strangers whose eyes followed you whether you wanted them to or not.
She'd walked this hall countless times before. Past the ornate grandfather clock with its slow, patient ticking. Past the arched window where the outside world existed only in moonlight and shadows. Past the door to the study— always closed. Always sealed with the kind of authority that told you to think twice before touching the handle.
The air here was colder than the rest of the house. It always was, as if Riven had personally negotiated with the seasons to keep it that way.
Her hand found the brass doorknob.
Warm.
Too warm.
The kind of warmth that made you wonder if someone had been here before you— or if the room itself was alive, waiting.
She'd been here before, yes, but rarely to talk. More often to listen. And when Riven spoke, it wasn't conversation— it was gravity.
But tonight, she told herself, would be different.
Because she had rehearsed.
She had the story neat, precise, with edges so clean you could cut yourself on them.
A slow breath in. She turned the knob.
The door opened with a soft click.
The scent hit her first— not overwhelming, but impossible to ignore. Leather, paper, and the faintest trace of something sharper. A cologne that didn't invite you closer so much as remind you that you were already too close.
The study was a cathedral of order. The walls were lined with shelves of books arranged so meticulously it was impossible to tell if they'd ever been touched. A single lamp bathed the desk in warm amber, leaving the corners of the room in shadow.
And there he was.
Riven.
Seated behind the desk, posture as exact as the lines in his tailored shirt. Hands steepled in front of him, resting on a single folder. His gaze lifted when she entered— not quickly, not lazily, just with the precise control of a man who had already noticed you five seconds before you opened the door.
"Arisa," he said.
The name felt heavier here than anywhere else.
She closed the door behind her. The sound of the latch settling into place was sharp, final.
Riven's voice didn't rise, didn't fall—just existed, perfectly weighted.
That was the thing about him. He didn't have to sharpen his tone to cut you.
She walked forward, the carpet swallowing her steps.
Don't rush.
Don't stall.
Make it look natural.
He didn't move as she closed the distance, only followed her with his eyes—eyes that made you think of still water. Not because they were calm, but because you couldn't see the currents underneath until you were already drowning in them.
"I figured I should tell you something before…" She let the words hang just long enough to imply caution without sounding guilty. "…before you hear it from someone else."
He tilted his head slightly, just enough for the lamplight to shift across his face.
"Go on."
Two syllables, and yet they opened a pit in her stomach.
She leaned against the edge of his desk, careful to keep her body language casual. The desk was solid oak—cold against the side of her thigh. She let her hair fall forward just enough to veil her expression.
"It's about Clara."
There. Name dropped.
Watch his face. Watch for the flicker.
Nothing.
No twitch of the mouth, no narrowing of the eyes.
His stillness was worse than anger—it meant he was already past surprise.
"She was… forward," Arisa continued, picking her words like stepping stones across a river. "Too forward. I handled it. Nothing happened."
She made sure her tone was light but with a trace of discomfort—just enough to make it sound believable. In truth, she could still feel the ghost of Clara's fingertips against her skin, the heat of her breath too close. She buried the memory deep, where it couldn't be read in her eyes.
"I stopped it," she added, raising her gaze to meet his now.
Make it sound like an anchor.
Make it sound like finality.
For a long moment, Riven didn't answer. His eyes didn't waver, but she could almost hear the machinery turning behind them. He didn't blink often, and when he did, it was deliberate, like the closing of a book.
Finally, he asked, "Is that all?"
"Yes." The word was clipped, precise—an answer with no room for suspicion.
It was the cleanest version of the truth she could craft, stripped of every detail that mattered. The way Clara had leaned in until there was no space left. The hushed voice that wasn't asking but claiming. The pressure in her chest when she realized she hadn't moved away.
She told herself it didn't matter. If Riven bought the story, it was over. If he didn't—well, there was no plan B.
His gaze lingered for a beat too long, like he was reading the space between her words. Then, without a shift in tone, he said, "Understood."
He turned to the folder on his desk, opening it to reveal nothing more than a neat stack of documents. "Close the door behind you."
Alright — here's P4 → P10 written as one continuous Japanese light novel–style Chapter 1 for Volume 2.
I'll keep the pacing slow, detail-heavy, and in close third-person (Arisa's POV most of the time), with one short switch to Riven's POV near the end.
This will carry the tension from the lie, through her exit, into the paranoia, and close with a hook for the next chapter.
The door was still behind her, shut tight.
It was ridiculous, really — that a slab of polished wood could look like both salvation and a threat. One turn of the handle, and she could be gone. Out of his line of sight. Away from this suffocating stillness.
But she stayed.
If she left too quickly, it would look like retreat. Retreat was weakness. Weakness made him dig.
"I stopped it," she said again—clearer this time. The words sank into the space between them like an anchor hitting the seafloor.
Not a plea. Not a defense. A statement.
Her voice didn't waver. That was the trick. Never let the rope slip.
Riven didn't move. His eyes—dark and depthless—remained fixed on her, as if waiting for the ripple of truth or lie to surface in her expression. He didn't blink often, and when he did, it was deliberate. Controlled. Like a judge closing a book before giving a sentence.
Don't blink. Don't breathe too loud. Don't let him see it.
Finally, the question came, flat and surgical:
"Is that all?"
"Yes." One word. Sharp. Precise. Final.
She gave him nothing else. She couldn't.
The rest was locked away: Clara leaning in until her perfume wrapped around Arisa like invisible chains. The whisper, too close, that wasn't asking but claiming. The molten weight in her chest when she realized she wasn't moving away.
If she opened that box here, she wouldn't walk out of this room.
Riven's gaze lingered. It was the same look he'd give a faulty blade — deciding whether it was worth reforging or tossing into the fire.
Then: "Understood."
A soft thunk followed as he turned toward the folder on his desk. White paper. Black ink. Neat stacks. Harmless things… if you didn't know him.
"Close the door behind you," he said.
The latch clicked louder than it should have.
Arisa's hand remained on the handle for half a heartbeat longer than necessary. Her knuckles were pale from the pressure, but she loosened them before they could betray her.
She walked. Not too fast — running was suspicion. Not too slow — lingering was worse.
The hallway outside his study was long, lined with tall windows that let in the pale winter light. It felt colder out here. Not in temperature, but in air. As though the warmth of human certainty didn't reach this part of the house.
Halfway down the hall, she glanced back.
The door to the study was closed. Still. Silent.
It should have felt like safety. It didn't.
The quiet between here and her room was dangerous. With no one to distract her, the memory was free to unravel.
Her boots clicked against the floor — sharp, steady beats that echoed back at her like a metronome she couldn't turn off.
She passed two staff members who bowed lightly. She didn't remember what their faces looked like. She barely remembered nodding in return.
Every step toward her room felt like walking further from the lie she had planted and deeper into the soil where it might rot.
It came in pieces.
A flash of gold in the lamplight — Clara's hair spilling over her shoulder as she leaned in.
The faint scent of citrus and something warmer, like sun-baked wood.
Her voice — low, knowing, threaded with the kind of confidence that didn't ask for permission.
"You don't have to think right now."
The whisper had curved around Arisa's ear like smoke.
And she — damn her — had stayed still.
Her hand had moved without thinking, fingers brushing the smooth line of Clara's hip through the towel. It had been a test, she told herself later. A way to measure how far Clara would go.
But in that moment, it hadn't felt like testing.
It had felt like surrender.
By the time she reached her room, Arisa had recited her own defense in her head three times.
It didn't matter. I stopped it. He doesn't need to know the rest.
She shut the door, leaned against it, and exhaled slowly.
Her pulse was still too fast. Her palms still damp.
She told herself she'd done the right thing.
If Riven believed her, it was over. If he didn't—well… there was no Plan.
In the study, Riven closed the folder.
He didn't need to look at the papers inside. He'd opened them for her sake, not his. To give her an exit that felt like choice.
He leaned back in the chair, eyes still on the door she'd closed behind her minutes ago.
Her lie had been clean. Too clean. Like glass that had never seen dust.
People who told the truth left fingerprints. Hesitations. Tiny details they didn't know they'd given away.
She hadn't left any. Which meant the fingerprints were somewhere else — wiped from sight.
And Riven, patient as the tide, had all the time in the world to find them.
Somewhere down the hall, he heard her door shut.
The sound was soft, almost delicate.
He smiled, faint and without warmth.
"Let's see how long you can hold that line, Arisa."