The silence after Kiril's whisper still clung to me when a door creaked open. I turned, and there it was—a lift, its iron gates wide, waiting as though it had been listening all along.
Kiril stepped forward first, his smile sharp in the torchlight. I followed, though my chest felt tight. The torches behind us flickered, shadows crawling across the walls like restless shapes.
The air pressed in, heavy, as the lift swallowed us whole.
The descent was slow. The chains rattled, the floor trembled, and each sound echoed like a heartbeat in the hollow shaft.
I kept glancing at Kiril. He leaned against the railing, humming softly, calm as ever. The tune was strange, but it carried warmth that unsettled me.
It was like he was remembering something I couldn't see.
When the gates opened, I froze. The chamber was filled with photographs. Kiril's childhood stared back at me—smiling faces, scraped knees, birthdays frozen in time. Toys sat on shelves, worn but carefully kept.
Meanwhile, in the grand hall…
The Boss moved restlessly through the crowd, his steps quick and uneven, his eyes scanning every corner of the chamber. The music swelled, glasses clinked, laughter rippled across the guests—but none of it reached him. His mind was fixed on one question: Where is Kiril?
He stopped beside a group of board members, his voice low but urgent.
"Have you seen him? Where did Kiril go?"
The men exchanged uneasy glances. One shook his head, another muttered, "He was here a moment ago… but then he vanished."
The Boss's brows furrowed, irritation mixing with dread. He pressed further, moving from one familiar face to the next, but every answer was the same—shrugs, nervous laughter, silence.
He paused near the banquet table, his gaze sweeping the hall. The chandeliers glittered above, casting light on polished silver and velvet gowns, but the absence of his son gnawed at him.
He caught sight of a colleague whispering to another, their eyes darting toward the empty doorway.
"Where did he go?" the Boss demanded again, his tone sharper now, cutting through the music.
No one answered. The party carried on, but the air felt thinner, the chatter strained. The Boss's chest tightened as he realized Kiril's shadow lingered over the celebration, unseen yet palpable.
Back here in the chamber...
"That was the summer I broke my arm," Kiril said, pointing to a picture of himself with a cast.
"Everyone thought I'd cry, but I laughed. Pain never scared me."
I studied his face as he spoke. At first, I felt suspicious. His words were too neat, too polished, like he had rehearsed them.
But as he went on, his voice softened. He teased me, laughed, and I found myself smiling despite myself. The stories pulled me in. My doubts lowered, pressed down by his warmth.
He moved from one photo to another, telling me about the dog he once had, the games he played in the yard, the fights with his brother, the way he always wanted to be the center of attention.
His words painted pictures so vivid I almost felt I had been there. I laughed at some of his stories, though a part of me still wondered why he was showing me all this.
We moved on. Another chamber opened, scattered with games. A basket ring stood in the corner. Kiril tossed a ball toward me with a grin. "Your turn."
The ball hit the ring, bounced, and rolled back. We laughed, tossing it again and again, the sound echoing like old friends. For a moment, I forgot the unease.
But then I saw it.
At the far end stood a vast circular shape, hidden beneath a heavy red satin cloth. Knives lay neatly arranged in front of it, their steel catching the torchlight.
"What's that?" I asked, my voice low.
Kiril's smile was calm, almost playful. "Later. You'll see."
We left the chamber.
He introduced me to his friends. They laughed, joked, and for a while I relaxed. Their voices filled the halls, warm and easy. I almost forgot the cloth, the knives, the strange weight pressing at the back of my mind.
His friends were lively, telling stories of their own, teasing Kiril, teasing me.
One of them clapped me on the back and said, "You'll get used to him. He always has surprises."
Another laughed so hard he nearly dropped his drink. Their laughter was real, but something about it felt rehearsed, like they were all part of a play I hadn't read.
Kiril stayed close to me, watching, smiling, joining in but never letting me drift too far from him. His eyes followed me even when he laughed. I felt it, the way he wanted me near.
Time passed in that blur of voices and jokes. I almost forgot the satin cloth, the knives, the circle waiting in the other room. Almost.
But when we returned, the cloth was gone.
I froze. My breath caught.
Ryan was bound to the circle, upside down, mouth gagged with cloth.
The laughter died.
I stared, unable to move. Ryan's eyes were wide, pleading, his muffled cries breaking through the gag. His body strained against the ropes, but they held him tight.
Kiril's eyes locked on mine, steady and unblinking. His voice was soft, almost tender.
"Now you understand."
I wanted to speak, but the words stuck in my throat. My mind raced back through the photographs, the stories, the laughter, the games. All of it had been leading here. All of it had been meant to lower my guard, to make me trust him, to make me forget.
The circle loomed vast before me, knives glinting like teeth. Ryan's body trembled, his muffled voice desperate. I felt the weight of Kiril's gaze pressing down on me, holding me in place.
I thought of the way he had teased me, the way he had laughed, the way he had told me his childhood stories.
I thought of the warmth I had felt, the ease, the comfort. And now I saw it for what it was. A mask. A trap. A way to keep me close, to keep me blind, until this moment.
The room seemed to shrink around us. The silence pressed in, heavy, waiting, watching.
Kiril stepped closer, his smile sharp again. "This is where our friendship begins," he whispered.
I felt the words cut through me. Friendship. That was what he called it. But I saw the truth in his eyes. It wasn't friendship. It was possession. It was obsession. It was the need to keep me for himself, no matter the cost.
Ryan's muffled cry echoed in my ears. My heart pounded. I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn't move. I wanted to speak, but my voice was gone.
Kiril's hand brushed mine, light, almost gentle.