The rain had turned to mist by the time Isolde reached Ashbourne Street. The old quarter of the city was nearly deserted, its cobblestones slick and gleaming under the dim glow of gas lamps. The address on the card led her to a narrow building wedged between two abandoned shops. Its façade was black stone, its windows shuttered. Only a single lantern burned above the door, its flame steady despite the wind.
She hesitated, her breath visible in the cold air. The rational part of her mind screamed to turn back. But curiosity had already become something else—an ache, a hunger she couldn't name. She pressed the doorbell.
It opened without a sound.
A man in a black suit stood inside, his face hidden behind a simple mask. "Dr. Crane," he said, his voice smooth and low. "You've been expected."
Her pulse jumped. "Expected by whom?"
He stepped aside. "You'll see."
The hallway beyond was narrow and dim, lined with mirrors that reflected her image in fragments. The air was warm, perfumed with something rich and intoxicating—amber, smoke, and roses. As she walked, the sound of distant music grew louder, a slow rhythm that seemed to echo her heartbeat.
At the end of the corridor, the space opened into a vast chamber bathed in golden light. Velvet drapes hung from the ceiling, and the scent of wine and perfume mingled with whispers. People moved through the haze like shadows—men and women dressed in black, their faces hidden behind masks of gold and silver.
A woman approached her, tall and elegant, her mask shaped like a raven's beak. "First time?" she asked, her voice smooth as silk.
Isolde nodded. "I was invited."
The woman smiled faintly. "Everyone here was invited. Few understand why."
Before Isolde could reply, the crowd shifted. A ripple of silence spread through the room. The music softened, and all eyes turned toward the staircase at the far end.
He was there.
Damien Vale descended slowly, each step deliberate, his presence commanding without effort. He wore no mask. His eyes, dark and unreadable, swept over the room until they found her.
For a moment, the world seemed to narrow to that single gaze.
He reached the bottom of the stairs and crossed the floor with quiet confidence. When he stopped before her, the air between them felt charged, alive.
"Dr. Crane," he said, his voice low, smooth, and dangerous. "You came."
She forced herself to meet his eyes. "You sent for me."
"I invited you," he corrected. "There's a difference."
"What is this place?"
He smiled slightly. "A sanctuary. A mirror. A test."
"For what?"
"For truth."
He offered his hand. "Walk with me."
She hesitated, then took it. His touch was warm, steady, but beneath it she felt something else—a pulse that wasn't entirely human, a rhythm that seemed to echo inside her chest.
He led her through the crowd, past curtained alcoves where laughter and sighs mingled, past tables where masked figures whispered secrets into each other's ears. The deeper they went, the darker the light became, until the world was reduced to flickering candles and the sound of their footsteps.
"Your patient, Victor Hale," Damien said quietly. "He spoke of me."
Her breath caught. "You knew him?"
"I know everyone who seeks me."
"He's dead."
"I know."
She stopped walking. "Did you have something to do with it?"
He turned to face her, his expression unreadable. "He asked for freedom. I gave it to him."
"That sounds like a confession."
"That sounds like truth."
She studied him, searching for guilt, for cruelty, for anything that would make sense of the man before her. But all she saw was calm certainty—and something else, something that frightened her more than anything.
Desire.
He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You don't believe in coincidence, do you, Doctor?"
"No."
"Then you already know why you're here."
"I'm here because one of my patients died."
"You're here because you want to understand what he felt."
His words struck deep. She wanted to deny it, but the heat rising in her chest betrayed her.
He smiled, slow and knowing. "Would you like to see what he saw?"
Before she could answer, he led her to a door at the edge of the room. Inside was a smaller chamber, lit only by a single candle. A mirror covered one wall, its surface dark and rippling like water.
"This is where we begin," Damien said.
She stepped closer, her reflection wavering in the dim light. "What am I supposed to see?"
"Yourself," he said softly. "Without the lies."
He moved behind her, his presence close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her neck. "Tell me, Doctor—what do you fear most?"
She met her own eyes in the mirror. "Losing control."
"Then that's where we'll start."
His hand brushed her shoulder, and the candlelight flickered. For a heartbeat, her reflection changed—her eyes darker, her lips parted, her expression not fear but hunger.
She turned sharply, but Damien was already stepping back, his smile faint and unreadable.
"Truth," he said, "is never gentle."
He opened the door, letting the noise of the main hall spill back in. "Come back tomorrow night. If you dare."
Isolde stood frozen, her pulse racing. When she finally looked back at the mirror, her reflection was her own again—calm, composed, rational.
But she could still feel his touch, still hear his voice echoing in her mind.
You want to understand what he felt.
Outside, the rain had started again, soft and relentless. She walked into the night, the black card heavy in her pocket, the scent of roses clinging to her skin.
And though she told herself she would never return, she already knew she would.