I woke up lightheaded.
Not the kind that fades with a blink—this lingered. The edges of the world dragged behind my vision, slow to catch up whenever I moved my eyes. The air tasted clean. Too clean. Sharp with something chemical, like it had been scrubbed of anything human.
White.
That was the first thing that settled.
The walls. The floor. The ceiling.
Even the bed beneath me—flat, firm, and too smooth—bled into the same sterile brightness. No seams. No imperfections. Just an uninterrupted field of pale light that reflected itself until depth became difficult to measure.
I pushed myself upright.
The motion came with a slight delay, my body slower than my intent. My hand pressed against the bed—cool, dry, faintly textured like polished stone pretending to be fabric.
"Ira, Fastidium, Timor, Laetitia, Tristitia, et Admiratio," I called.
The names left my mouth instinctively, familiar anchors thrown into unfamiliar space.
My voice echoed.
Soft.
Contained.
It didn't travel far before the walls caught it and sent it back to me, thinner.
"How long have I been unconscious?"
No answer.
The silence that followed wasn't empty—it was controlled. Held in place.
"What happened? I thought we'd handled the intruder."
I swung my legs off the bed.
The floor met my feet with a faint chill. Solid. Smooth. Unyielding.
My gaze moved slowly across the room.
White desk.
White chairs.
Nothing else.
No edges that suggested a hidden panel. No seams where a door might slide open. No shadows deep enough to conceal anything.
"What's the time?"
Still nothing.
My belongings were gone.
Every trace of myself—removed.
"What is it, Ira?" I asked quietly.
The answer didn't come in words.
It came in pressure.
A subtle swelling at the edge of perception—like something brushing against the inside of my thoughts. Familiar. Layered.
Happiness lingered low, diffused through my shadow like a faint warmth that refused to fade.
Surprise—restless—moved quicker. It flitted, probing the space, testing boundaries I couldn't see.
No doors.
No windows.
Only the bed behind me, the desk ahead, and two chairs positioned with unnatural symmetry.
"It's quiet," I murmured.
I let myself fall back.
Not onto the bed.
Onto the floor.
The impact was gentle, but the surface held no give. My back registered the hardness immediately, grounding me in something real.
I stared at the ceiling.
No fixtures.
No light source.
Just white.
"I wonder where Victoria is."
The thought settled heavier than the rest.
"Good morning, Eudora. How was your night?"
I moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
My vision lagged behind the motion as I pushed myself up, eyes snapping toward the voice.
They were there.
Where there had been nothing.
Figures stood near the desk—solid, present, undeniable.
No sound of entry.
No shift in the air.
They simply were.
Disgust surged sharply, cutting through the haze.
It pointed.
Not physically—but insistently.
A door.
There—where the wall met itself without seam—now held a faint outline. Subtle. Almost imagined.
They had stepped through it.
"And who might you be?" I thought.
Surprise hovered near one of them, leaning in too close, pointing with silent urgency.
Four figures.
Two men.
Two women.
Their clothing matched the room in color but not in intent. Black and white—structured, deliberate. The fabric held sharp lines, edges that resisted the softness of the surrounding space.
Control.
That was what it suggested.
Recognition struck.
"Ahh," I said softly.
One of the women stood slightly forward.
I knew her.
I had killed her.
The memory surfaced cleanly—impact, resistance, finality.
And yet—
Here she stood.
Unchanged.
"Is there something on my face?" she asked.
Her tone was even.
Unbothered.
One of the men stepped forward and placed a file on the desk.
The sound it made—paper against surface—was the first real noise in the room.
Grounded.
Intentional.
"Miss Eudora, correct?" the other man asked.
I straightened.
Not fully.
Just enough.
My expression settled into place.
Neutral.
Worry had no place here.
Not mine.
Not theirs.
Surprise had already said too much.
I felt it—how it pressed forward, curious, unfiltered.
Anger followed.
Slow at first.
Then rising.
It pooled at the edges of my shadow, pushing outward as I pulled myself back into control.
How…
How was she still here?
"Yes," I said. "What can I do for you?"
Silence answered.
Not absence—evaluation.
They watched.
Not my face.
Not directly.
Something else.
"A cultist with the ability to manifest emotion and manipulate it," one of the men said.
The words landed flat.
Clinical.
But beneath them—
Unease.
Subtle.
Barely there.
It rippled through the room in a way most wouldn't notice.
But I did.
Why were they disturbed?
If they already knew, why react at all?
A faint chime broke the stillness.
Soft.
Metallic.
The other woman tilted her head slightly. Small bells threaded through her hair shifted, brushing together with each movement.
She leaned toward the man with the file.
Whispered.
His pen moved immediately after—quick strokes across paper.
My gaze lingered.
I tried to measure them.
Failed.
The feedback loop collapsed before it formed.
This might not be ideal.
"How long have I been here?" I asked.
No answer.
Names remained unspoken.
Introductions withheld.
Everything structured.
Everything controlled.
"So…" I exhaled lightly. "What can you tell me about the Ninth Catalogue?"
The man who had spoken earlier leaned forward slightly.
Paul.
The name surfaced without warning.
Familiar.
Tied to something else.
My father.
My eyes shifted—not to him, but downward.
To my shadow.
It moved.
Not independently—but densely.
All of them gathered there.
Ira.
Fastidium.
Timor.
Laetitia.
Tristitia.
Admiratio.
Layered.
Interwoven.
"I do not know what that is," I said.
The words came smoothly.
Measured.
But they weren't the point.
They didn't care about the answer.
"And the Bloody Eclipse?" he pressed.
His gaze didn't sharpen.
Didn't shift.
But the weight of attention increased.
I understood then.
It settled slowly, but completely.
My responses didn't matter.
They already had the answers.
Every question was a tool.
Every pause—deliberate.
I wasn't speaking to inform them.
I was speaking to reveal myself.
A mirror.
That was what I had become.
My voice—
A surface.
Something for them to read the movement beneath.
And beneath—
Everything moved.
Confusion tangled with irritation.
Dread pressed against curiosity.
Relief flickered in places it shouldn't.
A dull fascination threaded through it all.
Mixed.
Unsorted.
Uncontained.
My shadow thickened.
It wasn't visible to them—not in the way I saw it—but it felt heavier. Denser. Like smoke trapped in a confined space with no way to escape.
I could see it.
The structure.
The control.
The way they positioned themselves—not too close, not too far. The way the man's pen never stopped moving. The way the woman with the bells listened more than she spoke.
Every detail fed into something larger.
A system.
A method.
And none of it mattered.
Not to what pressed inside my chest.
The weight of it.
The contradiction.
The simultaneous pull in opposing directions.
There was no single emotion to anchor to.
No clear line to follow.
Just layers.
Endless.
The room remained white.
Unchanging.
The four figures remained still.
Watching.
Waiting.
And I—
Stripped down to awareness—
Lay there in that sterile light, listening to the quiet, steady pulse of something fractured and whole at the same time.