Dance of the Cursed

Clara

It's the intense heat that wakes me up along with the thick clouds of smoke in the air.

Coughing, I try to open my eyes and look around. My vision is blurry, but I can somehow piece together where I am.

It's an unknown room, with wooden floors and old furniture. The windows and doors are locked, trapping me like an oven. I look up, my eyes starting to tear up, and it seems the roof might fall any moment now. But the most disheartening sight is of a woman in a long dress, lying unconscious on the floor at the corner.

I have to get out.

Walking towards the door, I try to open it, but it's locked. No matter how hard I try, it won't budge. I cry out to anyone present outside, but there is no answer. The air gets thicker with smoke, making it hard to breathe, and the heat causes my skin to get red. Panic sets in as I realize the gravity of my situation.

There has to be a way! There HAS to!

I run towards the narrow window and break it with my elbow. A huge wave of relief washes over me as I see people gathered outside the house.

I scream at the top of my lungs, "HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!" I begged and waited for any one of them to move and come help me. A minute passed by, then another...then another, yet no one moved. They all kept staring, eerily gazing at the burning house in infront of them, their faces lit up by the light.

My cries for help fell on deaf ears, and my terror turned to despair as I realized I was truly alone.

I turned back into the house. I need to find a way out of here. I can't fit through this window. I know I have to keep moving, but my legs feel heavy, as if rooted to the spot. As the flames crept closer, my screams grew hoarse.

My eyelids flew open, and I gasped for air as the ice-cold water splashed my face, shocking me out of my nightmare. My eyes sting a little from the bright lights, and I try to get up but feel like my movements are restricted. I've been tied down.

"Why do you look so scared? I haven't even started yet."

As I try to catch my breath, I look up at Alister. His eyes gleam with a sadistic intensity while holding an empty metal bucket.

What was that!? That...nightmare. It seemed so real. Who was that on the floor? What was going on?

My blood runs cold as I look around the room, forcing myself to forget about the dream and focus on my current situation.

We're in a damp, brightly lit basement that appears to be empty. The walls are made of grey concrete, and the air is thick with the scent of rust and moss. I see a wooden table in the center of the room, with various tools and devices scattered across its surface, along with a pistol. Some of them look like they're for hunting, like bear traps, while others appear to be more sinister, like syringes and different types of knives. There is also a basket in the corner of the room.

"Quite a place you got here." I utter as cold water drips down my face. "It suits you. I can practically smell the despair."

He tries to hide his smirk as he sets the bucket down, the sound of it too loud in the otherwise quiet room. I watch his gloved hands pull back long sleeves up to his elbows and move to a knife on the nearby table.

The scrape of the wooden chair against the concrete as he brings it in infront of me grinds through the air like fingernails on a chalkboard. He sits down with relaxed ease, leaning back in the chair like he's just here for a casual chat, the knife twirling in his hand, its sharp edge catching the light with each rotation.

If he's this calm, I suppose he took care of all the cautious texts to my family. Even the live location I had sent my driver.

"I guess it IS cozy." He says as his gaze sweeps the room. He's enjoying this. Every second of it.

I shift uncomfortably, digging my nails into the chair, the pressure helping to steady me—at least a little. My knees won't stop shaking, and cold sweat on my skin is a constant reminder of how much I've lost control.

Well...I haven't lost all control.

I admit I was careless. No matter how guarded I was and cautious around him, he still managed to fool and drug me. Still succeeded in kidnapping me.

"Hmm, I'm still alive." I force the words out, despite the tightening in my throat. My voice trembles, but I try to hide it, trying to sound defiant. "What? Did you want to ask me if I told anyone else?"

There was only one thing I was certain of, and now it has been proven.

Alister likes to gloat. From what I saw at the abandoned building, he made sure the man listened to him in his last moments. For someone like him, killing the victim in their sleep might not be as thrilling or satisfying. And recalling the twisted grin that formed on his lips as he murdered, I can tell he needs them awake. He needs to see their final moments and make them hear his words.

"Oh, I know you didn't tell anyone. You wouldn't. Not until you confirm how much I know and who else I've told," he says with that same dark amusement.

I feel the weight of his gaze, and it makes my skin crawl. He knows everything, doesn't he? The reason why he isn't bombarding me with questions about what I might have done, why I didn't turn him over to the police, why I haven't fired Lily yet, and why I didn't tell my family about it. Everything.

"Happy to have me all figured out, huh?"

"Not quite." He tilts his head towards my arm. "I didn't take you for the suicidal type. Life not great enough for you?"

I knew it.

Before I fainted, I had a suspicion he wasn't going to kill me in my sleep. But it was all an observation, not a guarantee.

I had to poke at his other quality. His curiosity. Finding suspicious marks on your enemy's arm when you had the impression that they were living their life to the fullest was sure to raise some questions. Questions he might need me alive to answer. It was a gamble, really.

I swallow as I smirk. "Well...you know me. All I want is attention. In every way possible."

I can't let him know. I can't let him know that the real reason behind those marks...is him.

Every time he did better than me at anything, I had to be punished with a sharp stick. It was...so painful. But Mother told me it was for my own good. That remembering the pain will make me want to do better. It did. But it also made me resent Alister even more.

I'm well aware how this information might be perceived negatively by outsiders. If Alister knows this, it will only be another thing in his list of my family's wrongdoings that he could exploit. I can't have that.

He looks at me with a scowl as I continue, changing the topic. "So? Are you going to kill me now, or just gloat some more?"

"You sound impatient." I notice his grip tightening around the knife now resting against the edge of his knee.

I can't help it. "You're taking your sweet time." I tilt my head. "Is that because you want to talk, or because you're still convincing yourself to go through with it?"

His eyes darken, and he leans forward, just enough to make me aware of the space—or lack of it—between us as I instinctively lean back into the chair. Without breaking his gaze, his left hand shoots out, grasping the back of the chair for support. His fingers curl around the wood with a tight grip while his other hand brings the knife to my throat. The cold metal of the blade is so close to my jugular that I can feel the sharp edge pressing against the tender flesh. It's a soft touch, but I know better than to move a muscle. "If I needed convincing, you wouldn't be in this predicament." His voice is low, deadly quiet, almost like a promise.

My heartbeat hammering in my ears, I can smell the faint hint of leather and the trace of cologne on his skin. "Duly noted." I whisper, refusing to meet his eyes as my gaze flickers to the weapons laid out on the table.

If it wasn't for the blade, I could headbutt him. I feel a strong urge to do it. Just to land one hit.

He finally pulls away, turns, and walks toward the table. My gut tightens as his fingers drift over the weapons laid out neatly. "Go ahead." He glances at me sideways. "I'll let you pick your poison. Every day you get to choose how you want to live your luxurious life. Now you get to choose how you die."

This guy really doesn't know anything about me.

I let out a slow breath, arching a brow despite the way my stomach coils tight. "How generous."

He smirks, setting the knife back down.

I dart my gaze toward the door upstairs. At the thin line of light beneath it, but that tells me nothing.

What time is it? How long have I been here?

My memory stumbles, trying to piece things together. It was nearly 4:30 when I got into his car.

It couldn't have already been 8, could it? If I'm not home by 7, my phone is tracked. But I don't see it or my bag anywhere in this room. He may have tampered with it, but the important files are password protected. Unless he needs that data out of it, he would have destroyed it. My bet is on the fact that he might have switched it off.

Even if my phone can't be tracked, I still have my trump card. Right now, my only option is to stall.

"You're awfully calm about this," I murmur, pouting a little. "Guess our friendship didn't mean much to you."

And there it is.

The smallest pause. His fingers hovering over something before he catches himself. It's brief, barely a flicker, but I see it. His jaw tightens just slightly, but he schools his expression before turning his head.

"Austin"

He says the name like it's something insignificant. He never did like saying my first name. Like it was a curse word, vulgar and bitter to the tongue.

"You were never anything more than a nuisance. And I'm just glad I finally have a reason to do something about that."

The finality in his tone stings.

Something inside me clenches—something I don't want to name. My arm twitches, and suddenly, the faint bruises there throb as if his words have reached beneath my skin, pressing into old wounds.

A memory stirs.

The shatter of glass. The sharp sting of something wet trailing down my scalp, the burn of alcohol mixing with blood. My mother's voice slicing through my frantic apologies.

"Always making a mess of things. Do you enjoy being a nuisance?"

She had grabbed me by the wrist, nails biting into my skin as she dragged me down the hall. My feet stumbled, legs weak, but she didn't slow. The door slammed. The lock clicked into place.

I had cried then, small and curled against the wood, whispering over and over, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

The words had meant nothing then. They still didn't now. But I said them anyway. Again and again. Hoping that the sound of them would somehow change things.

But it never did.

I blink, shaking my head, trying to push the memory aside. It's too easy for my mind to slip back into such places, where the bruises aren't just physical.

I can't let myself get lost there. Not now. I inhale sharply, forcing myself to focus on the here and now. To stay in control.

I look back at him as he uncaps a syringe.

The earlier hesitation. That's the opening I needed.

I let my expression falter, as if I need a second to process his words. Then, just as quickly, I force a small, sad smile.

"That's… too bad." My voice is quiet, something just vulnerable enough to make him think twice. "Because even though we never liked each other, I still thought of you as a dear friend."

I lift my gaze to meet his, watching for a reaction. He doesn't give me one.

Instead, Alister puts down the syringe and leans back against the table, arms crossing over his chest. He doesn't roll his eyes or scoff like I expected. But he also doesn't look like he believes me.

Still, he's listening. And that's enough.

"I know. Sounds ridiculous, right? But, you see, with everyone else—I had to be perfect around them. Sweet, polite, never too loud, never too rude. Always smiling. Always… agreeable." I gesture vaguely. "But you?" I let out a small breath of amusement. "You saw right through it."

Still nothing. No reaction.

"And I hated that. Hated you for it. You always had a comeback, always saw when I was faking, and always found a way to drag the real me out no matter how hard I tried to shove her down."

His fingers twitch slightly against his arm.

"But you know what?" I tilt my chin up. "I realized, with you, I didn't have to pretend. I could—"

"There's no use stalling." His voice cuts through my words. "Your phone is powered off. No one knows where you are. By the time they realize you're missing, you'd already be dead."

Of course. Of course he saw what I was doing this time too.

I let out a long, slow sigh, letting my head tip back against the chair. Time to change tactics. "Alright, I give up."

Alister doesn't react as I shift my gaze back to him. "So, name your price."

His brow furrows slightly, the first real sign of confusion I've seen from him. "My price?"

"Yeah." I nod. "The reason you're doing all this. What do you want? Money? Power? Influence? Properties?" I let the last word roll off my tongue slower, watching him carefully as I say it. "…Me?"

After a moment of silence, he scoffs. "You really think that's what this is about?" He shakes his head, exhaling sharply through his nose. "You still don't get it, do you?"

He pushes away from the table, stepping forward again, but there's no knife in his hand this time. He doesn't need one.

"It's none of those things." He sounds like he's explaining something obvious, something true. "It's about making sure people get what they deserve. The ones who think they can do whatever they want. The ones who take and take and never pay for it." His eyes darken, and there's something raw beneath his composure. "People like that don't deserve to walk free. They deserve to be eliminated."

He takes another step closer, and I feel a tightening in my chest, but I don't look away. He lowers his voice, almost to a whisper, but it's no less forceful. "That's justice."

I stare at him, baffled, searching his face for any sign that he's joking—that this is all some sick, twisted game to mess with me. But no. He's serious.

A laugh—sharp and disbelieving—escapes me before I can stop it. "Justice?" I repeat the word foreign on my tongue, like it doesn't belong anywhere near him. "That's what this is? That's what all of this is?"

I glare at him as my fists clench. "All the killing, all the tearing people down—just so you can go out and play vigilante?"

Frustration flares in my chest, burning hot and fast. I lean forward as much as the chair allows. "Who the hell do you think you are, Alister?" My voice rises, "Some higher power sent to cleanse the world? You act like you're better than everyone else, like you see things so clearly, but you're just a hypocrite." I lean back, scoffing. "You talk about justice, but all you're doing is feeding that twisted little ego of yours."

I can see the flicker of something behind his eyes—annoyance, irritation, something deeper—but he doesn't speak.

So I keep going.

"You're no different from the people you claim to hate. You talk about them taking and never paying for it, but what about you? What about—"

"That's quite a speech," he cuts me off, crossing his arms, head tilting slightly. "But remind me—what moral high ground do you have to stand on, exactly?"

I stiffen, but he continues before I can interrupt.

"Because if I remember correctly, when you found out about my little hobby, you didn't report me to the police. You didn't turn me in." He steps closer. "You weren't horrified. You weren't grieving some life lost. No, you were more interested in how much dirt I had on your family. Just like now."

His words hit like a slap.

"That's not—"

"Not true?" He interrupts. "Are you sure? Because from where I'm standing, you weren't looking for justice." He lets out a short, humorless chuckle. "And you have the audacity to lecture me about morality?"

Heat rises to my face, but I refuse to look away.

Calm down, Clara. He has no idea. He will never understand.

I let a slow breath pass through my lips, watching him carefully. "Let's just chalk it up to us being horrible, selfish people and end this conversation."

He narrows his eyes. I let the silence stretch, just enough to make him wonder where I'm going with this.

"So just relax, do whatever you want...at least until 8 o'clock." I continue.

He stays still, watching me carefully, but I see the flicker of calculation in his eyes. It's almost too satisfying, knowing he's trying to piece together what I've just hinted at.

"No pressure, of course," I add casually, "just something for you to think about before you get too comfortable."

I can see the exact moment when it clicks in his mind—his eyes widen behind his glasses. Without a word, he spins on his heel and rushes up towards the basement door.

Now alone, I try once more to work the ropes around my wrists, the rough fibers digging into my skin, but I can't seem to loosen them. My gaze drifts toward the knife on the table. How long would it be before he comes back?

As if reading my mind, the guy enters and throws my bag on the ground before running down himself. He fishes out my phone, the same one he'd been so careful to confiscate before, and crushes it under his boot.

I smirk. "You think that'll stop the scheduled upload? When it's set up on my many other devices?"

I watch his fists clench in anger, the realization settling in. But before he can retort, I let out a short, mocking laugh. It echoes through the air as I feel victorious.

Witnessing a murder and going to class with that same murderer meant I had to stay as composed and ignorant as possible. There was always that slight chance Alister might find out that it was me. Precautions had to be taken. I was planning on blackmailing him with that if he ever made his move against me.

He closes his eyes, trying to steady himself. When he opens them again, the storm that had once raged behind them is gone, replaced with a chilling calmness. The scowl that had been etched into his face is wiped away, leaving behind a controlled mask.

He sits down in the chair. "So what if it gets released? You'll still die right now."

"One," I start lightly, "your reaction just now doesn't exactly scream 'I'm unconcerned.'" I grin as his grip tightens on the chair, a subtle giveaway that he's not as unbothered as he wants me to believe.

"Two," I press on, playfully, "you are a bright, smart, talented, and good-looking young man with a future full of potential. Who could do anything he puts his mind to. Someone like you wouldn't let something as trivial as this slip-up ruin his life. Not after all the careful planning, all the meticulous details you might have put in place."

I watch his hands twitch again, fingers flexing as if fighting the urge to reach for the knife on the table. He's clearly itching to end this, to silence me. But he knows better.

A sharp breath escapes him, as if all the energy has been drained from him. He takes off his glasses, rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hand. His face twists, frustration written all over it.

"God," he mutters under his breath. "You're exhausting."

For some reason that didn't feel like an insult.

I meet his gaze unflinchingly, eyes locking with his as I speak.

"Either you let me go," I begin, "we work together to get rid of these parasitic gemstones stuck to us while I keep your secret, and you keep mine. Or..." I let the word hang in the air like a death sentence. "You kill me, and both our dirty laundry gets aired out for the world to see."

I add, almost as an afterthought, "However, murder is certainly a bigger crime than a few accusations without solid evidence. Something my family will have no trouble diffusing."

He blinks once, then twice, as if processing my words. Then, slowly, a smirk starts to curl at the corners of his lips. This isn't going the way I thought it would.

"Accusations, you say?" He stands up and walks over to the table where his phone is. He taps something into the phone, and then he holds the screen out in front of me.

My heart pounds in my ears as I stare at it.

This—this—is far worse.

Pictures of documents, spreadsheets, and financial statements flash across the screen, each one more damning than the last. Blood drains from my face as I take it all in. He doesn't know much, but it might be enough to arouse suspicion among my father's enemies.

His eyes never leave my face. I can see it in the gleam behind his glasses—he's savoring the panic that's playing out across my features. It's like he's been digging for this exact look, waiting for it to surface. And now that he's found it, he's not going to let go. The satisfaction in his gaze is palpable.

Then, the words I know are coming reach my ears: "So, do we have a deal, princess?"

"...Yes," I finally whisper, my voice barely a breath.

He walks behind me and begins untying the ropes. I can't bring myself to look up, not even when I feel the tightness begin to loosen, the ropes slipping away from my wrists.

But the moment they fall away from my legs, my instincts kick in faster than I can process. With a surge of rage, I throw my fist at his face while he's on the ground. I feel a flash of triumph as he stumbles back momentarily. I sprint toward the table, my movements fueled by adrenaline as I grab hold of the pistol. After making sure it's loaded, I point it at him.

For a long, unbearable moment, we just stare at each other. His dark eyes are locked on mine as if daring me to make the first move. Then, without warning, he folds his arms behind his back and begins slowly walking toward me.

Grip tightening around the weapon, my voice comes out sharp and desperate. "What do you think you're doing!? Stay back!"

But he doesn't stop.

"Heard you have a lot of weapons at home. Your father is a big fan of guns and hunting, isn't he?" He says, looking unbothered, which further infuriates me. "You've probably seen him take down a few animals. He even took you there with him a few times, didn't he?"

The words hit too close to home, to memories I can't shake. I step back as my breath hitches. "I said stay back!" I shout again. My finger tightens on the trigger, my mind screaming for him to listen, but my body betrays me. Another step back, another instinctive retreat.

His approach doesn't falter. It only makes my pulse quicken, the gun trembling ever so slightly as I try to hold my ground while he continues, "But you never shot an animal. Either you're a terrible marksman, or..."

His voice fades out for a moment, and I don't need him to finish the sentence. He's right in front of me. The barrel hovers just inches from his body, so close that if I move even a fraction forward, it will press into him.

His brown eyes stare into mine, dark and searching, stripping me bare. He's studying me—not the gun, not the threat, but me. As if the weapon between us doesn't matter. As if he already knows what I'll do.

"You don't have the guts to take a life," he says. The words slice through me like a blade.

I want to pull the trigger. I want to prove him wrong.

However, the adrenaline that had been surging through my veins moments before drains out of me, leaving a hollow emptiness behind. The gun suddenly feels heavy in my hands, like it weighs a ton. The cold metal seems to mock me, tempting me to end it all, to silence him.

But even as the temptation claws at me, I realize the truth.

I end up taking another step back and throwing the gun on the floor. It falls, hitting the ground with a hollow, ringing sound that seems to echo inside my heart.

His smirk returns—just the faintest curl of his lips. I hate him for it. But more than that—I hate myself for resisting.

He moves toward the basket and pulls out a white cloth. My brows knit in confusion as he approaches.

"Wear this as a blindfold," he instructs.

I hesitate, the question barely forming on my lips. "Why?"

Instead of responding, he moves behind me to do the job himself and carefully drapes the cloth over my eyes.

The world is immediately plunged into darkness, my senses heightened, and my hearing becomes sharper. I'm acutely aware of him now, more so than before, and I can feel the weight of his presence pressing against me. I almost wait for him to stab me in the back.

"Because this is a secret place," he murmurs as I hear him walk three steps to my left. Probably where I was tied up. "Now hurry up, and I'll drop you off where your car was parked."

"You slashed my tires, so you better not leave until you fix that problem." I demand as I feel the tug of my bag being handed to me. I accept it, pulling it over my shoulder.

"Let's go," he says, ignoring what I said. I flinch when I feel the pressure of his hand wrapping around my wrist, pulling me forward. The coldness of his long fingers seeping into my skin is a stark contrast to the warmth that rises in me in response. My thoughts begin to wander, and before I can stop myself, the image forms in my mind. I can see his slender hands wrapped around someone's neck, squeezing the life out of them. My skin prickles at the thought, a mixture of disgust and curiosity curling deep in my gut.

As we climb the stairs, the tension between us thickens. Something inside me wants to snap—an urge, a sudden reckless impulse to break free, to do something unpredictable, to push him down the stairs. The thought is fleeting, but it lingers for a second too long.

When we reach the door and he opens it, I force my mind to focus.

We're inside a house; that much is clear. The floor beneath my feet creaks with every step, the soft groan of old wood stretching under our weight. The air inside smells different and musty with age. But there's another scent—faint, earthy. The unmistakable smell of wood, of pine trees, and damp forest soil.

We're in a cabin in the woods.

His grip tightens as soon as we step out of the cabin. I pause, standing still for a moment, letting the fresh spring breeze dance around me. The air flows through my dress, swaying with the wind. My damp hair brushes against my shoulders, lifting with each gust, the softness of it mingling with the coolness of the night. The sound of rustling leaves fills my ears.

For the first time since I've been dragged into this mess, I feel like I can breathe again.

It doesn't last long, as his annoying voice snaps me back to reality. "What are you doing? Move," he says impatiently as he pulls me along.

"Not every day you get to stand in the middle of nowhere, with the wind in your face and a bit of peace." I answer. He says nothing after that and keeps walking.

As I follow him, each time my foot meets the ground, crunching against dry leaves and twigs, I count in my head. Measuring the distance away from the cabin. Each new sound feeds my brain's calculations, slowly building a mental picture of our surroundings.

I've moved with him for exactly thirty steps so far. With 15 turns. The wind seems to shift, rustling the branches above me in a more constant way, suggesting we're no longer on the outer edge of the clearing but deeper into the forest. The ground is uneven, with more rocks and roots jutting out underfoot.

This won't be the last time I see the cabin. I intend to return. And next time, alone.