As I step inside, it feels like teleporting into a different dimension.
The floors are impeccably clean. The walls too. The wooden furniture looks expensive—carefully chosen, not decorative. But what really throws me off is the insane number of books. I don't even need to guess: they're organized by index and topic.
Order.Absolute order.
Between the shelves, in front of a Victorian desk, sits a woman.
Young.So young I can almost smell spring on her.
She's reading Phenomenology of Spirit, sipping coffee, relaxed—completely unconcerned with my presence. She doesn't even look up until I'm about five steps away.
Just getting closer makes my body react.
I can feel my heart almost escaping my chest.
She's literally any man's dream. A red dress with a generous cleavage. Perfect hair. Redhead. Soft lips. And when she finally looks at me—
Those blue eyes.
It feels like they're pulling my soul straight out of my body and into a cold, distant dimension.
I know I'm a virgin. My body probably doesn't know how to lie about it yet. But this woman shatters every barrier I try to put up. With just one look, she shuts down my survival instinct and replaces it with a desperate need to earn another glance. No wonder people say the downfall of a man is a woman—if Troy fell for someone, it was probably her.
"H–hello… I mean—good afternoon."
My voice comes out smaller than I'd like.
"I'm here for a delivery. From Madam Ruby. To this address."
My heart is racing out of control.
She smiles faintly, and with that, the last trace of caution packs its bags and leaves the planet.
"Take it out, then," she says, still staring straight into my eyes.
Oh God.
I swallow hard. Two full seconds pass—two brutal seconds where my mind goes completely feral over the ambiguity of her words. I feel absurdly blessed just hearing them come from someone that beautiful. Right now, I'm grateful language even allows words like that to exist.
Those two seconds turn into an impossible war inside my head: instinct versus survival, impulse versus self-control. I fight not to get lost in it, not to say something too honest… or too stupid.
The outcome is obvious.
I lose.
So I shut up and hand her the package.
She looks at it.
"Did you open it?"
"No, madam. I swear. I just brought it here."
Only then does she finally reach for the package.
Up until that moment, lying hadn't even crossed my mind.
Then she asks:
"Did you think about running away?"
I hesitate. Just one second.
"I did, madam. But I'm glad I didn't."
"Why is that?"
"Because there's no way out anyway. Am I right?"
She watches me—like I'm an interesting idiot.
I pause… then push my luck.
"I'm sorry for asking, but what's valuable enough to pay ten thousand just for a delivery? And why did Ms. Ruby feel comfortable putting something like that in my hands?"
She smiles wider.
"Valuable, you say?"
She opens the package.
Inside: a box of Habanos.
"Regional edition. Switzerland only," she says calmly. "They happen to be a friend's favorite. Ruby was traveling, so I asked her to buy them. A simple gift."
Oh.
Just that.
For a second, I thought I was carrying gold, diamonds, or cocaine.
"I bet Ruby scared you for good," she laughs. Her laughter is almost musical.
Fuck. I scared myself for nothing.
I finally relax.
"I thought I was deep in trouble. So… can I leave now?"
"Of course," she says, clearly enjoying the joke. "But first—would you like to taste something? Think of it as an apology gift."
She points to a bottle of Macallan whisky.
"Smooth. Sweet. Elegant. Dried fruits, honey, vanilla, warm spices, fine oak," she recites. "You don't taste it. You get seduced by it. Or at least, that's what the guy selling it said."
I blink a few times. The old man who brews liquor once mentioned something similar. When he got to the price, though—yeah, no point talking about that now.
I won't lie.
I'm tempted.
"Thank you for your generosity, madam."
She pours me a glass.
For a second, I think how lucky I am—having a woman like this pouring me whisky. If someone saw this scene without knowing who I really am, they'd think I was winning at life.
I drink.
She wasn't lying.
"Wow," I sigh. "That's… incredible."
I take a second sip. My mouth freezes in awe. I'm sitting on a chair probably worth more than whatever pension I'll get when I retire, drinking something far too precious for the current me.
My thoughts start to blur.
"It's impressive," I say. "Second glass, and I still can't get over the complexity."
"I'm glad you like it," she replies. "You know… you have very sincere eyes."
"Thank you, Ms… I'm sorry, I don't think you mentioned your name."
She laughs softly.
"That wasn't a compliment," she says. "But I'm glad you took it as one. My name is Saphira."
She places two empty blister packs in my hand.
Numbers.Words.
All I can read are two names:
NayzilamMidazolam
Those two words ended my relief—
and ushered me into the impossible.