The car ride was suffocating.
Elara sat in the backseat, spine rigid against the leather, her phone hidden deep in her pocket. Her pulse beat against it, as though the device itself carried a heartbeat of its own. The message from the unknown sender burned inside her skull: Don't go with him. Go alone. Trust me.
She wanted to believe it, wanted to grasp at the promise of escape, but Damian's men sat on either side of her—silent, immovable, their broad shoulders hemming her in. Their eyes, hidden behind tinted glasses, never left her. They weren't people. They were walls with lungs.
Outside the tinted windows, the city changed. The glittering skyline and neon blur of nightlife melted into a darker world—boarded-up shops, broken streetlights buzzing like dying insects, graffiti-smeared walls that whispered secrets of a thousand forgotten nights. This wasn't Damian's glass-and-gold empire. This was its underbelly, and it stank of rust, smoke, and desperation.
The car finally slowed to a crawl. They stopped before a narrow alley that seemed to choke on itself, brick walls leaning in like vultures. Rainwater pooled along the cracked pavement, reflecting what little light there was in dull, sickly glimmers.
A guard stepped out and pulled her door open. "This way."
Elara hesitated. Her heels touched the wet ground reluctantly. Every nerve screamed to turn and run, but the guards' shadows loomed on either side of her, closing the path.
Each step down the alley echoed too loudly. Click. Click. Click. Her heart tried to match the rhythm but stumbled. The smell of mildew and iron wrapped around her.
At the end, a steel door waited. The guard rapped his knuckles once, twice, before shoving her inside.
The air was heavier here, damp with sweat and something far sharper.
Chains rattled.
Her breath caught as her eyes adjusted to the dim, swaying glow of a single bulb overhead. In the middle of the room sat a man tied to a chair, his head bowed. His wrists were torn raw from the rope digging into flesh. Bruises marred his jaw, one eye swollen shut. A trickle of dried blood stained his shirt, but his chest still rose and fell, defiant.
Then his head lifted. His gaze found hers—wild, furious, human. Not an enemy. Just a man.
A guard pressed something cold into her palm. She looked down. A knife. Sleek. Sharp. Heavy for its size.
Her fingers curled around the hilt, trembling. "What is this?"
A voice slid from the shadows like smoke. Smooth, deliberate, unhurried. Damian.
"This," he said, stepping into the glow, "is your test."
Elara's stomach dropped.
"You want to survive in my world?" His tone was calm, terrifyingly calm. "Then prove it. Get your hands dirty."
Her throat constricted. "You want me to—"
"Kill him?" Damian's mouth tilted, that almost-smile that made her blood ice. "No. I want you to cut him. Make him bleed. Show me you understand what loyalty costs."
The captive's breath hitched. His voice came out hoarse but strong. "Don't. Don't become his puppet. Don't do this."
Elara's heart raced so hard it hurt. She gripped the knife tighter, the metal biting into her palm.
Damian stepped closer, circling her like a predator savoring its prey. "You have a choice," he whispered in her ear. "Spill his blood, or spill your own."
Her phone vibrated in her pocket—once. She didn't dare look, but she knew. The stranger. Watching. Waiting.
Her knees trembled. Her gaze flicked from the knife, to the captive's desperate eyes, to Damian's calm, unrelenting face.
"You think this is about him?" Damian's voice softened, intimate, almost tender. His hand ghosted down her arm, guiding the blade upward. "No, little dove. This is about you. About whether you belong to me—or to no one at all."
The guards moved closer, shadows pressing in. The man in the chair struggled against the ropes, desperation cracking through his fury. "Please," he rasped. "Don't let him own you like this. You're not like him."
Elara froze, knife poised, her breath shattering into short, uneven gasps. If she obeyed Damian, she'd cross a line she could never uncross. But if she refused, she knew the punishment would be far worse.
She felt trapped in a tightening cage—the knife in her hand, the man before her, the predator at her back, the stranger whispering through the dark.
Her reflection flashed in the blade—haunted eyes, pale skin, lips parted in fear. A stranger stared back at her.
Elara's grip tightened.
And in that moment, she realized something horrifying: no matter what choice she made tonight, she was already bleeding inside.