After the contract, silence. But Lila feels the walls closing in. She's given no instructions, no warnings—just an invitation to a room she's never seen, one that doesn't appear on any floor plan. Inside, nothing but light. And Damien. What follows is not a meeting. It's a psychological crucible—an attempt to reshape her, to question everything she believes about her past, her talent, and her freedom. This is not just a room. It's a threshold.
---
LAST MOMENT:
Her reflection smiled.
She did not.
---
The message came at exactly midnight.
"12:45 AM. Level 41. Room 417."
There was no Level 41.
She checked twice. The tower's official index stopped at 40. The penthouse was listed as Damien's domain. Level 41 wasn't on her badge. Wasn't on the digital display. Didn't exist.
But she knew what that meant now.
Nothing in this building was what it claimed to be.
At 12:43, she stepped into the elevator.
Alone.
The screen above the buttons shimmered to life without her touching it.
"Welcome, Miss Hart."
The buttons disappeared.
Replaced by one new symbol.
41.
She pressed it.
No motion. Just a vibration.
Then—
Everything went black.
No lights. No hum.
Just darkness.
She reached for the panel.
Gone.
Gone.
Then, just as her breath caught in her throat—
ding.
The doors opened.
Light.
So much light.
It blinded her.
She stepped out slowly. One hand raised.
The room ahead was glass and white. Stark. Endless. A gallery with no art. A box with no key.
No windows. No shadows. No sound.
Just silence.
And then—
Damien.
Standing in the center.
His arms folded. His expression unreadable.
No desk. No chair. No script.
Just him.
Waiting.
She stepped forward.
No echo. No click of heels. The room absorbed everything.
She stopped ten feet from him.
"What is this?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
"What am I doing here?"
Still nothing.
Then, slowly—he walked to her.
And placed a small object in her hand.
A pencil.
Red.
She stared.
"What do you want me to do with this?"
"Draw."
"Draw what?"
"Whatever's left of you."
She wanted to throw it.
But her fingers gripped it instead.
He stepped back.
And said nothing else.
She looked around. No paper. No canvas. Just walls.
So she approached one.
Lifted the pencil.
Touched it to the wall.
It accepted the mark.
Like skin.
She drew. Slowly at first. Then faster.
A face. Hers.
Then another.
Damien.
Then—
Evelyne.
Then a door.
The chair.
The rooftop.
The surveillance.
Each line cracked the silence.
She stopped, breathing hard. Sweat collected at her hairline, but she didn't stop.
She drew memories she didn't know she remembered. The alleyway outside her childhood home. A red umbrella left on a train. A boy's hand slipping out of hers as a subway door closed.
She stepped back.
The wall had become a mirror.
Not glass.
Truth.
She stared.
And saw not herself.
But a girl with red hands.
Then—
Damien behind her.
He whispered:
"You're not broken. You're being remade."
She turned.
He was closer now.
Too close.
She shoved the pencil into his chest.
He didn't flinch.
The pencil fell.
Rolled.
Stopped at her feet.
She picked it up.
This time she drew faster. The rooftop again, but it was burning. Then Evelyne's face, contorted in rage. Her own face, screaming.
The walls began to vibrate.
She didn't care.
She added lines, color, slashes of red that felt like bleeding.
And with each stroke, something inside her loosened. Became wild. Uncontained.
"You drew yourself, Lila," Damien said again. "Just like I knew you would."
"No," she whispered. "I drew what you made me."
He stepped forward.
"For the first time," he said, "you're not imitating. You're remembering."
She stopped drawing.
Turned slowly.
Her voice was ice. "You built this room to trap me."
"I built it," he said, "to set you free."
The elevator opened behind her.
No message.
No button.
Just open space.
She walked to it slowly. Paused inside.
Her voice carried across the room.
"You said once that I didn't fit the pattern."
"You don't."
"Then don't expect me to follow it."
The doors closed.
He stood alone.
Behind him, her drawings still burned on the walls.
He turned back to the center of the room. The walls had begun to darken where her drawings bled through. The ink and color had started dripping, slowly dissolving the white to something rawer, something beneath.
She had opened a layer.
Not just of herself.
Of the room. Of him.
And as he reached for one of the lines—the one where she had drawn his eyes—it smudged under his fingers. Warm. Still alive.
A shadow behind him shifted.
Another reflection?
No. A presence.
Someone else had seen what she had drawn.
And it was watching, too.