It began with silence.
Then shadows.
Chloe stood in a vast, endless space. There were no walls, no ceiling just thick darkness, as if the world had been turned off. Her bare feet touched nothing. She spun slowly, trying to find a path, a shape, something to hold onto.
Then came the white cloud.
It hovered a few feet away from her, shapeless and swirling, glowing faintly. It looked like smoke and silk and soft fog all at once. It had no face, no body. But it had a voice.
And it sounded like her own thoughts. Familiar. Intimate.
"Tell me about today," it whispered.
Chloe blinked. "What?"
"Tell me what happened. Don't lie."
She hesitated, then sighed. "I went to the mansion."
The cloud shimmered, as if pleased.
"And?"
"I don't know who he is. But he made me feel…" She blushed. "He made me feel things. Deep things."
"You liked it," the voice said with a slow curl of pleasure. "Your body still remembers. You're wet just talking about it."
Chloe scoffed, glancing down at herself, and froze.
There, between her thighs, dark red was trickling down her legs.
Blood.
Thick, warm, and bright.
Her mouth fell open in horror. "Oh my God… I'm bleeding."
"Are you in pain?" the cloud asked calmly.
"No…" She felt her chest rising with panic. "But how can you say I'm wet when it's blood?"
"Do you feel aroused?"
She hesitated.
Her nipples were hard. Her body was trembling with something that was definitely not fear.
"…Yes," she whispered.
"Then touch yourself. You'll see."
"No," she said softly, even as her hand was already moving.
Her fingers slipped between her thighs, brushing her swollen clit. The blood was slick, warm, and strangely sweet-smelling. She gasped.
And then she moaned.
Because the pleasure that followed didn't feel wrong.
It felt overwhelming.
She rubbed faster, eyes fluttering shut, her hips bucking forward. The cloud swirled closer, almost dancing around her. Blood smeared down her thighs, sticky and hot but her fingers didn't stop.
She was close.
So close.
Until…
"Chloe."
Her eyes snapped open.
Standing in front of her was her mother.
But not the paralyzed woman lying in a bed back home.
No, this version stood tall.
Strong.
Unaided.
Her thin gown billowed gently in the breeze that didn't exist.
"Mom?" Chloe whispered, frozen mid-touch. "You're walking?"
Her mother's face was unreadable.
"Stop what you're doing," she said.
Chloe backed away, stunned. "What? No! You can't just barge in on me like this, I'm 22, I deserve—"
"You don't understand," her mother said sharply. Her voice echoed like thunder in the void. "You mustn't climax. Don't release. Don't give in."
The cloud suddenly grew larger.
Louder.
"Ignore her. Continue. Release. Let go."
Chloe turned, caught between two worlds.
Her mother's voice, frantic now:
"Stop, stop, stop, STOP—"
The cloud, thundering like a heartbeat:
"RELEASE. CONTINUE. RELEASE—"
"Mom, I—!"
She tried to speak.
But then she felt it.
That tight coil in her core, begging to unravel.
The war inside her broke her body in half.
She moaned as her hands shook, still down there. Blood smeared across her fingers. Her pulse screamed.
"STOP!"
"RELEASE!"
"STOP!"
"RELEASE!"
Her head fell back.
Her mouth opened.
Her whole body seized.
And she woke up.
Gasping.
Sweating.
The sheets clung to her skin, soaked through with heat and confusion. Her heart pounded in her chest like it had been sprinting through that endless dream space. Her breathing was ragged, every inhale sharp as though the air itself resisted her lungs.
Her eyes darted to the nightstand. The soft buzz of her phone lit up the dark room. She grabbed it with trembling fingers.
10:03 AM.
Already morning.
Her thighs were slick not with blood, thank God but with heat. Need. Frustration. Her skin tingled with phantom memory, the remnants of a dream that didn't feel like a dream at all.
The voices still echoed in her head.
Her mother's frantic warnings.
The cloud's insistent demand: Release.
She looked down at her hand.
Still trembling. Still hovering.
A jolt of shame coursed through her, and she yanked the sheets off her body, stumbling out of bed and into the hallway. She nearly slipped, barefoot on cold tile, but caught herself on the doorframe.
She pushed open the door to the second bedroom.
Her mother lay just as she had the night before. Still. Silent. Paralyzed.
Her chest rose and fell in soft, rhythmic sleep.
Chloe knelt beside the bed, her breath still shaky. She checked the tubes, adjusted the pillow behind her mother's neck, and pulled the blanket higher on her chest. She ran a hand over her mother's forehead, as if to confirm: warm, real, alive.
Tears threatened, but she blinked them away.
"I'm okay," she whispered, more for herself than her mother. "It was just a dream."
But it hadn't felt like one.
Later, in the bathroom, Chloe stood under the shower for more than twenty minutes. Ice-cold water poured down her back, needling her skin like punishment. She let it sting. She wanted it to sting.
But the cold couldn't wash it away.
The memory was still there, just behind her eyelids.
The dream. The blood.
The cloud's voice.
"You're wet just talking about him…"
She shivered, and not from the water.
What disturbed her most wasn't the bleeding. Or even the strange dream appearance of her mother.
It was how much she had liked it.
The pleasure had been… real. Overwhelming. Honest.
After drying off, she wrapped herself in a towel and sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers held the envelope tightly.
$2,000.
She could register her mom today. The hospice she'd found online had good reviews and promised full-time medical care, specialized for stroke patients. Registration was steep but doable with the money.
She could pay part of the overdue rent, too. Maybe even pick up the medications the pharmacy had started holding back until payment cleared.
It was a relief. A heavy, aching relief.
But it wasn't enough.
The hospice required ongoing care. The monthly payments and the costs were high. Stroke-paralyzed patients needed everything: nurses, feeding, bathing, and monitoring. And that was before factoring in adult diapers, medications, and doctor appointments.
Her fridge was almost empty.
Literally.
She'd checked last night: a half bottle of ketchup and milk that had gone thick and sour. That was it.
Chloe exhaled slowly and let her envelope fall into her lap.
Was this what survival looked like now?
Trading pieces of herself for money? For safety?
She didn't want to go back to the mansion. The place had an eerie, off-kilter quality. The butler lady gave her the creeps with her stiff smile and distant, watchful eyes.
And Valerius? He felt… dangerous. Not in a way she could name, but in her bones.
He hadn't touched her but she had never felt so touched in her life.
His voice had slithered into her like silk wrapping around her nerves.
"I don't need to touch you to own you. Your body is already speaking to me."
She squeezed her eyes shut.
This was a bad idea.
She should forget about it. Go look for another job.
But even as her mind rebelled, her phone vibrated again.
Another notification.
Another reminder.
Rent is overdue.
Pharmacy bill pending.
Hospice consultation at 2:00 PM.
Reality didn't care about dreams. Or feelings. Or strange men with velvet voices.
Reality cared about numbers. Debt. Illness. Survival.
She stood up, dressed in silence, and glanced at the mirror.
Valerius had said: "Come back tomorrow."
Not if you want to.
And deep down, she knew…
He had known she would return.