The Locked Cellar

Adrianna cherished her quiet mornings. She loved the taste of dark coffee, the sight of a pale sky, and the feel of slightly ajar windows letting in the crisp air. Below her penthouse, Milan was alive with energy—cars honked, vendors called out, and people hurried past—but she remained above it all, cocooned in her solitude and silence.

She had crafted a life that was entirely her own, free from family ties and unburdened by her past. There was no drama—just her art, her studio, and a handful of carefully constructed lies that kept her history at a distance.

This morning should have felt just like any other.

But the birds were eerily quiet.

At first, she didn’t pay it any mind. She was too engrossed in gliding her fingers over a blank canvas, envisioning a new triptych. Her last series had done well—abstract pieces in deep crimson that were just tortured enough to catch the eye of collectors without crossing into grotesque territory.

Her phone buzzed on the counter.

An unfamiliar number.

She ignored it.

It buzzed again, then fell silent.

When she finally took a look, the screen was blank. No missed calls, no messages—just a strange symbol etched into the wallpaper.

A circle with four lines slicing through it like a fractured sun.

She hadn’t set it.

She hadn’t downloaded anything.

Adrianna frowned, locked the screen, and set it aside.

She never noticed the two men who slipped in through the service door.

They moved like shadows—silent and deliberate, clad in black gloves and boots. Their faces were obscured behind something shiny, like glass that reflected nothing at all.

By the time she heard the click of her front door shutting, it was already too late.

She reached for the kitchen knife—but it was a moment too late.

A cloth was pressed over her mouth. She felt a sharp sting of a needle going into her body.

Her knees gave way.

The canvas toppled.

The city outside continued to pulse with life.

---

She awoke in darkness.

Not the kind that comes with night, but a suffocating blackness. Concrete walls, a stone floor, and air that tasted of dust and copper. Somewhere far above, water dripped at irregular intervals, echoing like footsteps in an empty church.

Her body throbbed.

She was perched on a cot made of cold metal, with no mattress to soften the hard surface beneath her. 

Barefoot.

Her coat was missing, along with any jewelry she might have had on.

As she stood up abruptly, a wave of dizziness hit her, and the room seemed to sway around her.

Someone had slipped her something.

She pressed her palm against the wall, feeling its chill and dryness. The only light filtered in from a narrow slit near the ceiling—no window, just a vent with something flickering behind it. Maybe it was something alive, or perhaps just a broken light.

She called out once, her voice raspy and echoing too far into the silence.

No one answered.

Time dragged on—hours, maybe days. It was hard to tell.

No food. No water. No explanations.

Just whispers seeping through the walls—soft murmurs, sometimes even in a language she didn’t understand. Once, she caught the distant sound of music, a violin playing something haunting and off-key.

She wasn’t alone in this strange place.

---

One night, the door creaked open.

Adrianna sprang to her feet, ready to defend herself. But it wasn’t a guard or a threat.

It was a woman.

Tall and draped in white, her hair was woven with strands of gold. The first thing that struck Adrianna were her eyes—black irises encircled with gold, resembling eclipses.

"You’re awake," the woman said, her voice carrying a weight beyond her years. "Good. The body must endure its suffering, but it must also survive."

"Who are you?" 

The woman didn’t respond. Instead, she set down a silver basin beside the cot.

Inside was warm water and a cloth. Nothing more.

"You’ll be cleansed," the woman stated. "Then marked."

"Look I’m not part of whatever this is," Adrianna protested, stepping back. "You’ve got the wrong person."

"No. You are the chosen one. Daughter of the bloodline. Born under the sun’s retreat and the moon’s hunger."

"What the hell are you talking about lady?" Adrianna’s fists clenched in defiance. "Where am I? What do you want from me?"

The woman’s gaze sharpened.

"No more questions."

She turned to leave but paused at the doorway.

"Your body is a key," she said. "You should feel honored."

The door shut behind her, and Adrianna heard the lock turn.

---

That night, she found herself lost in a dream filled with symbols she couldn’t decipher.

Her body felt like it was on fire. Her skin was cracking. She saw herself lying in a circle made of ash and gold, surrounded by faceless figures chanting incomprehensible words. Above her, the moon and sun danced together, trapped in an impossible eclipse.

And at the center, watching her with a distant kind of affection, stood a man in a dark suit. His face was cloaked in shadow, and his hands were stained with blood.

Yet, there was something about his smile that felt oddly familiar.

---

In the waking world, Alessandro stood outside the cellar door.

He wasn’t quite sure why he had come.

He had caught whispers of a prisoner—a girl who had been brought in under the cover of night. Even his father had kept quiet about it, which meant it was either trivial or something of great significance.

The guards at the entrance remained silent. They simply nodded and stepped aside when they recognized him.

He entered alone.

The room was colder and smaller than he had anticipated. No windows. No mirrors. Just the girl.

She looked up as he walked in.

Their eyes met.

Neither of them spoke at first.

She rose slowly, hesitantly.

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice sharper than he had expected.

"I could ask you the same," Alessandro replied.

His eyes roamed over her—she was barefoot and had bruises around her wrists, yet she stood tall. Despite everything, there was something about her. Her gaze didn’t waver.

"I don’t know why I’m here," she said slowly. "But if you’re part of this—"

"I’m not."

She didn’t seem to believe him.

He couldn’t blame her.

"I’m Alessandro Morretti."

That made her blink. A flicker of recognition crossed her face—faint, uncertain.

"Moretti?" she asked.

His breath caught in his throat. "Yes."

She took a step back as if the name itself had hit her.

"So that’s what this is," she murmured. "A message."

"No," he said quickly. "I don’t—my father doesn’t share everything with me. But if you’re here against your will—"

"I am."

Alessandro hesitated, something in her voice and presence tugged at a buried part of him—something deeper than mere curiosity.

"What’s your name?"

At first, she stayed silent. 

Then, after a brief pause—"Adrianna." 

The name struck him as both beautiful and sharp in a way he hadn’t expected. 

He opened his mouth, ready to ask more, but the door slammed shut behind him. 

Voices echoed from outside, and a key clicked in the lock. 

He turned to face it, but when he looked back, she was gazing at him with an expression he couldn’t quite decipher. 

"What happens now?" she inquired. 

"I don’t know," he confessed. 

But deep down, he was lying. 

Something had already started. 

And neither of them would walk away the same