I paused for a moment, and suddenly I saw his finger emerge from the darkness, making a slight gesture... as if to say, "Go on."
I was drunk, but I smiled gently and swayed again. I could feel his gaze piercing my being.
As I looked back at him, I saw him rise from the darkness, walking towards me with slow, confident steps... Then I caught a glimpse of his face in the light. It was him... just as I'd seen him in the pictures. His same dark eyes, his white shirt unbuttoned, his masculine scent looming... and his glass still in his hand.
He approached me in the center of the ring. Everyone was dancing, but we were the ones standing in the center. I looked at him with shocked, pleading eyes... Is this the end of me?
He whispered in his terrifying voice, "Keep dancing..."
It's him... Death...
I'm not dreaming...
It's Joseph...
My lips slackened, and astonishment drew itself upon my face. I stood before him as if staring at a ghost born of my nightmares. His broad build, those glacial eyes, that masculine scent, his tousled silken hair, his towering height, his deep voice—
I could barely carve his features into memory.
Was this my end? Could it be that a single week was all I was destined to live within these palace walls?
He took a sip from his glass, his gaze never leaving mine. Then he spoke again, this time with a faint smile.
"So they told you such terrible things about me that you tremble like this?"
Who told him I was afraid?
Do I truly look that way—like a mouse cornered by a hungry cat?
He smiled with his eyes… there was a dangerous, enigmatic aura radiating from him, and that smile only deepened his sinister charm—like a serial killer savoring his prey.
The dancers swirled around us in a blur of motion, bumping into me from every side. In this place, if you weren't dancing, you were trampled.
Yet he stood firm, unmoving, as if surrounded by an invisible barrier no one dared cross.
He took two steps closer and suddenly gripped my shoulders to steady me. His grasp was painful, and the terror it sparked made my lashes tremble on their own.
I want Stacker and Caster… where are they?
Am I about to faint?
"I'll be waiting for you…"
That was the last thing I heard.
.
.
.
I awoke to the sound of tangled whispers.
I found myself lying on my bed, surrounded by three faces shadowed with worry—my mother's angered one, Caster's frightened one, and Paige's feigned concern.
It took me several moments to gather the scattered pieces of my mind and realize where I was.
"Mother… what happened? Why does my head hurt so badly?" I whispered, my voice frail and weary.
I couldn't recall the details clearly. Had I been struck? Or had I drunk too much and blacked out?
I prayed it wasn't the latter—if I had crossed the line, it could mean the end of my stay in this palace.
"Rest, and don't try to move," my mother said coldly. "You're still under the effect of those glasses you emptied."
I sank into the pillow in despair. She knew the truth, of course. I had lied when I told her we were going to a simple restaurant.
Had she known it was a bar, she would never have let me step out that door.
I glanced at Caster standing in the corner—his face pale with fear and regret, nervously biting his nails, his arched brows filled with guilt.
I smiled weakly to assure him it wasn't his fault, but deep down I kept asking myself—how had they allowed me to end up like this?
Then my eyes turned to Paige, dressed as always in his formal suit, checking his watch now and then.
It was obvious he didn't want to be there—just pretending for my mother's sake.
Suddenly his phone rang. Relief swept across his features like a man granted escape.
"My mother's calling," he said quickly. "I'll go get her."
Mother nodded, allowing him to leave.
Where was that mysterious old woman? I only saw her at the week's end, and even then, she remained a shadow in this mansion—a ghost that did not belong.
"Mother, don't worry about me… I'm fine."
"Fine? You don't look fine, Diana. The fact you even went to that bar enrages me. And the amount you drank—"
I remembered those TV characters who flee to bars to drown their sorrows, only to wake up unconscious the next day.
Was that what I had done?
"But look at me," I interrupted softly. "I'm fine… I'm eighteen now. I'm not a naïve child anymore. I'll get used to this life."
"I'll send Jana to bring you some medicine," she said sharply. "Take it and rest."
Those were her last words before she turned to leave—but not before casting a warning glare at Caster.
Clearly, she would blame them, though I knew they were innocent.
"How did this happen?" I asked Caster, adjusting my posture on the bed.
He hesitated. "You drank too much."
"I've drunk two bottles before and never felt like this. Tell me what really happened."
I remembered the first time I stepped into a bar with friends—after my high school lover betrayed me.
I drank everything offered to me, but I never passed out; I merely fell asleep.
"Listen," he said nervously, "I don't know exactly. You were dancing… then suddenly I found you lying on one of the lounge couches."
Curiosity struck me. I pressed my aching head. "And then…?"
"Then I asked the bartender, and he said you were dancing with an older man. You suddenly fainted in his arms, and he carried you to the couch."
Memories came flooding back like a nightmare I had just lived.
I clutched my head, trying to remember.
Then… I saw his face.
I had been standing before a man.
Before Joseph.
I remembered his voice saying, "Keep dancing…"
Everything returned in a single wave—but I didn't remember him laying me down.
Could I have imagined it? Maybe it was someone else, and my drunken mind had conjured his face.
His existence itself was death—everyone knew that. So why was I still alive?
Caster noticed my expression change, fear clouding my face.
I touched my throat, struggling to breathe.
"Are you okay?" he asked, voice trembling.
"Go… I want to be alone."
"Alright. If you feel better, you'll find me in the music hall. I'll be waiting."
He said that while patting my head, then left quietly.
Wait—"I'll be waiting"?
Those were the same words Joseph whispered before the darkness swallowed me.
I knew that sentence would torment me until I learned what he meant.
Waiting for what? To kill me?
An hour later—
or perhaps more—
I lay there fighting sleep. Half an hour of deep slumber, and the rest a battle against Joseph's shadow in my mind.
I knew he was real. Yet I kept forcing myself to believe it had all been a dream.
His death had been news everywhere for years—so how could he have appeared in that bar?
Despite the danger that radiated from him, despite that aura of silent threat, I couldn't deny the fascination of his presence.
My heart tried to recall what I'd felt standing before him, but those feelings slipped away like smoke under a spell.
Fear. Panic. Every emotion that could make a person faint—I felt them all.
Yet there was something else, something I couldn't name.
His cryptic smile, his deep voice—
they made me feel I was facing someone extraordinary, someone who didn't belong to this world.
I had met many kinds of men in my life: the arrogant, the proud, the lover, the hater, the weak, the controlling…
but none had ever unsettled me as Joseph did, by merely standing there.
He made me feel his overwhelming power—as though I were nothing but prey.
And now, my goal was no longer survival.
It was confrontation.
Even if impossible—I would be the stronger one.
.
.
.
After a long search through the palace corridors, I finally found the music hall Caster had mentioned.
I changed into something more comfortable and made my way there.
I had grown tired of being trapped alone with Joseph's ghost haunting my thoughts.
Caster always knew how to brighten my mood—he was the light in this otherwise shadowed life.
I was eager to see the hall. My father had taught me classical guitar as a child, but never piano, though it was the instrument I loved most.
He used to say, "Let's master this one first—then we'll move on to the piano."
But he kept postponing it until he left this world, leaving me ignorant of the one instrument my soul longed for.
The hall's door loomed before me, massive and grand. Clearly, the room spanned an entire wing of the palace.
They were rich enough to dedicate a hall to music alone.
I pushed the door open—
and what I saw exceeded all expectations.
This palace never ceased to surprise me.
Each time I thought I had seen all its secrets, it revealed another.
I had imagined a stage and rows of seats for an audience. Instead, I found a sprawling chamber lined with bookshelves.
In one corner lay an artist's studio, filled with masterfully painted canvases breathing the soul of history.
In the opposite corner stood an elegant collection of musical instruments.
I wandered in awe through the Victorian-brown interior, the artistry of it all seeping into my soul.
Caster was nowhere to be found. The hall was empty, bathed in dim light that wove a spell of serenity.
The only sound was the soft echo of my own footsteps on the marble floor.
I approached one of the classical paintings—its earthy tones, its lifelike depiction of the human body rendered with exquisite anatomical precision.
Every detail bore emotion: pained expressions, secret stories.
I reached out to brush my fingers across the textured strokes.
Then I noticed the signature—dated 2022.
And the first letter… was a J.
There was no doubt—it was Joseph.
I moved toward the bookshelf filled with rare novels, some of which I had long searched for in vain.
I picked one up and opened it—
and what caught my eye was a handwritten verse scrawled across the dedication page:
"Shall the slaughter repeat for the sake of the line?
And shall I drink from the blood of the pure the cup of survival?
When shall I be freed from this plague?"
I stared at the lines, reading them again and again.
They were written in an ancient tongue—Hebrew, or perhaps Babylonian.
My years steeped in literature had not been wasted.
Whoever wrote those words belonged to my world—someone whose mind mirrored mine.
Without hesitation, I took a pencil from the shelf and wrote beneath it:
"When the hunter tastes blood that burns his tongue,
And finds his new prey flavored unlike any before,
He shall know the circle of slaughter has been broken."
I knew then—the author, criminal though he was, possessed a poetic soul rare among men like him.
I continued my slow exploration until I reached the instruments.
Smiling faintly, I stood before the piano.
Should I attempt my first ever tune—the one my father never taught me?
I sat down, laid trembling fingers on the keys, and began to press them at random, producing a fractured melody.
Then suddenly—
a voice came from behind me.
"Your playing isn't bad…"