The morning dawned slowly, as if time itself hesitated to cross the boundaries of that house after the previous night. The soft light filtering through the windows found an atmosphere bearing evident marks of excess—furniture slightly displaced, fabrics disheveled, and a heavy silence that was not one of rest, but of consequence. At the center of it all, the main room presented an almost absurd sight: two figures hung upside down, bound by chains of blood that pulsed with their own vitality, as if they were conscious extensions of the will of their creator.
Carmilla and Scarlett remained there.
Their long hair fell towards the floor, already slightly disheveled by time in that position, their bodies supported by a force that showed no intention of yielding. The physical discomfort had already passed; what remained was a growing irritation, fueled not only by the situation itself, but by the fact that this was clearly not carelessness.
It was deliberate.
