When I woke up, something had changed.
And for the first time… it scared me.
No pain. No fever.
Just this strange sensation in the pit of my chest as I opened my eyes — as if a clock I'd never heard before had suddenly started ticking.
Today, I'm twenty-one.
And tonight, like six nights out of seven…
I'm heading back to the casino where I've been working for the past six months.
Good pay, good tips.
That's the only reason I stay there.
Because the rest…
Makes me feel uncomfortable.
And tonight, more than ever.
I sensed it the moment I stepped into the large circular hall.
An unusual scent hangs in the air. Enchanting. A blend of spices… followed by a more subtle note.
Metallic.
The lights are harsher.
The music louder.
The voices noisier.
A mix of laughter, shouts, slot machines and clinking glasses.
Usually, I let it all wash over me. A constant din, a background noise I've learnt to ignore.
Not tonight.
I quickly take refuge behind the bar, my heart pounding in my chest. I put down my bag, adjust my uniform, and mechanically pull at the hem of my skirt to smooth it out. Just to keep my fingers busy, so as not to show that I want to run away.
I lean towards Robin.
"Robin… is there something odd about me?"
He takes a moment to look me over, from head to toe.
Then he raises an eyebrow.
"No. You're just the same as always. Why?"
I lower my voice a little.
"I don't know… I feel like people are staring at me. It's weird…"
Robin glances around the room.
Then he laughs.
"Maybe they're fed up with their zombies in their collars."
I smile mechanically, but it doesn't feel genuine. Not tonight.
I'm all too aware of the weight of certain stares already drifting my way.
Watching the girls clinging to the customers' arms, I feel more pity than anything else.
Their eyes are empty.
Lost.
When I walked into the games room, several men turned their heads towards me.
Their gazes locked onto me.
Intense. Predatory.
I don't know how much they're paid to keep these men company…
But no amount of money would be enough for me.
My gaze sweeps across the room.
Bodies brush against one another for lack of space.
The music thumps against the walls.
The slot machines are screeching.
The lights are flashing relentlessly.
All of this is normal in a casino.
But here…
There's something else.
Something strange.
The men are young.
Rich.
And in their eyes… there's something different.
Something dark.
Something menacing.
Usually, I blend into the background.
I'm invisible.
Just a waitress walking past with her tray.
It's me who chooses not to exist, not them who ignore me. It's my way of surviving here.
But tonight is different.
A shiver runs down my spine.
The first orders are coming in.
I grab my tray and make my way through the room, shoulders hunched, eyes downcast. It's a habit. Here, being invisible is a form of protection.
Except tonight, it's not working anymore.
I sense it before I see it — a hand clamping down on my arm like a vice. My tray wobbles, but I manage to steady it just in time. My back hits the wall.
The air leaves my lungs in one go.
But I grit my teeth to stop myself from groaning.
The man is tall. Imposing. I can't see his face — just his jaw, tense, his nostrils quivering slightly. As if he were searching for something.
As if he'd found it.
His head moves down towards my neck.
Slowly.
I wedge my tray between him and me, like a pathetic shield.
'Sir, I'm working. Let me go.'
My voice isn't as firm as I'd like it to be.
"You smell so good…"
His voice is low. Almost reverent. Which makes it even more terrifying.
I try to push him away — he doesn't move. Not a millimetre. As if I didn't exist.
His tongue brushes against my throat.
Cold.
Abnormally cold.
A wave of nausea rises in my chest. I turn my head, looking for someone. Robin. Anyone.
"Stop… I'm a waitress… just a waitress…"
"I don't care."
His voice falls against my ear. Calm. Assured.
"I'm going to take you right here. Right now. "
My brain freezes for a second. No scream. No words. A dry emptiness inside — and, just behind it, something else, pure anger trying to rise to the surface.
I tighten my grip on my tray. If I hit him with it, I might pay dearly for it. If I do nothing, I'll pay for that too.
The tears come before I even decide to let them. I already hate them.
Then the man freezes.
Not because of me.
Because of something behind me.
I don't understand straight away. The room hasn't gone quiet — and yet something has shifted in the air, like a pressure moving. The conversations around us have dropped slightly.
The man who had pinned me against the wall takes a step back.
Then another.
He lowers his head.
At last I catch a glimpse of his face: the same icy beauty as the others, but twisted by a seething frustration that he immediately swallows down.
And he walks away—without a word, without a glance in my direction—as if a silent command had just shot through the back of his neck.
I remain pressed against the cold stone, trembling, my cheeks wet.
I quickly wipe my face with the back of my hand. There's no way anyone else is going to see me like this.
I try to regain control of my breathing. Then I slowly turn my head, ready to thank him.
He's there.
Tall. Motionless. Hands behind his back, his gaze fixed on me with a precision that pins me to the spot — no curiosity in his eyes, no pity either.
Something harder to name.
Something that looks like recognition.
As if he really sees me.
"Thank you…" I whisper, my voice broken but audible.
He couldn't have heard. Yet his gaze slides to my lips — and he tilts his head slightly.
He understood.
He steps forward. Each step measured, silent. He stops in front of me — too close, far too close — and leans in slightly. Not to speak. To observe. Like a man taking the time to read something written in tiny letters.
I hold his gaze for a second longer than my fear allows. I want to know what someone who makes monsters retreat looks like.
Then his voice drops.
Deep. Controlled. Almost gentle — which makes it more dangerous than anything else.
'Your scent is… surprising.'
My breath catches.
My face tightens.
"That's not a compliment I hear very often," I reply, my throat still tight.
He straightens up. Slowly. Just enough for our eyes to meet.
His eyes are black. Not dark. Not dark brown.
Black.
Like two windows opening onto something I shouldn't be looking at — and yet I'm drawn to it.
A slow smile forms on his lips. Not reassuring. Not cruel, either.
The smile of someone who has just discovered something he didn't expect to find.
His cold fingers slide under my chin. He lifts my face.
I resist at first, stiffening my neck, then I let him. If he wants to look, let him look.
And at that moment, something warm stirs deep within my chest. Not fear. Not desire. Something older.
A pressure builds behind my eyes—gentle at first, then insistent. As if someone were trying to force a door open from the inside.
His eyebrows furrow.
The pressure vanishes.
His smile fades. His jaw tightens. A shadow crosses his eyes—a surprise he didn't want to show.
"Who are you, Calindra?"
"How do you know my name?"
I try to pull away, but he places both hands against the wall—on either side of my head—gently, effortlessly. Just a matter of fact. A cage that isn't quite closed, but whose bars I can already feel.
"I know who you are, Calindra. I'm your boss."
A silence.
His dark eyes pierce mine.
I swallow and refuse to look away.
"So you also know that I'm a waitress, not… anything else."
A flash crosses his eyes. This time, I'm sure of it. A clear crack in his control.
"Tell me instead… what you are."
His voice isn't really asking. It's demanding.
But deep within that perfect blackness, for a fraction of a second, I think I see something else:
A question he's asking himself.
And that, more than anything else, frightens me.