2 — Cage

Eirwen stepped out of the car Marsel had arranged—unmarked, silent, like it had been waiting since the city was built—and into the midnight hush of Tower Spire 32.

The lobby was cathedral-black, a cage of glass and shadow, lit only by the reflections of rain running down mirrored walls. The floor shimmered obsidian. No guards. No reception desk. No visible cameras.

But the door opened without her touching it.

She paused. One foot inside. One still in the storm.

Above her, the ceiling bent her reflection until it no longer looked like her. Her ribs still ached beneath her coat, bandage tight around burned skin. Her cracked phone buzzed in her pocket with the last of its life—like it knew something she didn’t.

She stepped inside.

The doors sealed shut with a whisper.

She walked slowly. The silence grew heavier with every step. The air smelled of stone, metal, and something older—like incense that had once meant devotion, now long extinguished.

At the far end of the black hall, a single elevator waited. She didn’t touch a button.

The doors opened anyway.

A red light blinked in the corner—an eye.

She raised her middle finger.

It blinked once, like it understood.

The doors closed.

The ascent was silent. But the pressure built. Not in the air, but in her blood—like the building wasn’t lifting her, it was reading her.

The floor counter glitched at 27. Then again at 29. Then froze on 32.

The doors opened.

She stepped into a corridor made of smoked glass and nothing else. Every surface reflected her—fractured, multiplied. The air buzzed like it had a heartbeat.

No one came to meet her.

“Eirwen Cayde,” her own voice said.

She froze.

It came from the walls. Not his voice. Not hers exactly. A recording—digitally stolen, refined, played back. The Tower had memorized her.

“Welcome,” it said again. “You are expected.”

She walked forward, jaw tight.

A door opened without sound.

Firelight spilled into the hallway.

And he was there.

He sat with one leg crossed, facing the window, back turned. A glass of something dark in his hand, ice melting slow and violent.

The office stretched like a cathedral—black marble, steel bones, floor-to-ceiling windows that turned the storm into stained glass. Smoke curled from a low dish beside him. Lion-shaped. Always lions.

He didn’t rise.

“You burned my building,” Domenik Laev said.

She stayed just inside the doorway.

“I was told you invited me.”

“I’m still deciding if I should thank you.”

She stepped further in. No permission asked. But her pulse betrayed her—each step cost her a breath.

“You’re not what I expected,” she said.

“And yet,” he murmured, “you came.”

He finally turned to face her. And it was worse than she remembered.

He wasn’t beautiful. He was designed. Every inch tailored into authority. Cold eyes, darker than the storm behind them. That lion ring on his hand—black obsidian, engraved like a wound.

She hated that her body reacted before her mind caught up.

“I expected a lecture,” she said. “Not a séance.”

Domenik stood, slow and smooth.

“You look like her,” he said.

She blinked. “Who?”

“The woman I thought I’d never let touch me.” He walked toward her, no rush. “And yet, here you are.”

He led her into a side room.

Glass table. One chair. A silver key resting dead center.

Marsel appeared without sound, setting down a folder—empty pages inside, except for her name already printed at the top.

Eirwen sat, but didn’t touch the contract.

“This isn’t legal,” she said.

“It’s not a contract,” Domenik replied. “It’s consent.”

Her lips parted. “To what?”

“To everything that happens next.”

She met his eyes. “You think I’m scared of being owned?”

“No.” He stepped behind her chair, and the air shifted. “I think you want to see what it feels like when ownership comes with attention.”

She turned slowly to face him. “You don’t know me.”

“I know what you did. I know how you bled. I know what you stole.”

He placed his hand on the table—next to the key.

“You can walk out now,” he said. “No one will follow. No one will find you.”

She didn’t move.

He smiled faintly. “But if you stay… you don’t get to lie to me. Not even once.”

She reached toward the key.

Her fingertips brushed it.

“I stay,” she said. “And if I lie?”

His voice dropped, velvet and blade in one.

“Then I’ll teach you what silence feels like.”

He led her into a hallway she hadn’t seen before.

The walls shimmered—mirror-smooth. A faint mechanical hum surrounded them. And then she saw the screens.

Dozens of them.

Each showing a different angle. Security footage. Live feeds. Recordings.

All of her.

Eirwen walking through a market three weeks ago. Sitting in a diner. Standing at the edge of the Bay, staring at the water.

“You’ve been watching me.”

“No,” Domenik said, stepping close. “I’ve been studying you.”

She turned to him. “Is this how you learn women? Cameras and data files?”

He leaned in. “No. This is how I choose which ones are worth breaking.”

Her breath caught—but she didn’t move away.

He reached behind her and clicked a switch.

Every screen went black.

Her reflection shimmered in the dark glass.

He looked down at her, voice low, patient, commanding.

“I’ve seen what you do when no one’s looking.”

He stepped even closer, close enough for her body to feel the heat of his.

“But now I want to see what you’ll do… when you know I’m watching.”

⟅━━━━━⟆ ⚜ ⟅━━━━━⟆

Next:

She stayed. Now the rules begin.