A thick mat lies in the center of the floor—"weird wrestling carpet," my brain supplies desperately, refusing to consider its actual purpose.
Something shiny catches my eye—a mirror on the wall. For half a heartbeat, I glimpse my own reflection, pale and wide-eyed, before jerking away. Seeing myself here, trembling and small, feels like an intrusion into my own fear.
In the corner stands what looks like a giant beam. "Just an unfinished support post," I tell myself. But why is there leather strapped around it? My thoughts skitter away from that question like cockroaches from light.
Along one wall sits a cabinet with drawers, almost mundane—like office furniture that took a wrong turn and ended up in hell. I don't want to imagine what's inside.
The smell hits me next—a suffocating mixture of polished leather, candle wax, old wood, and something metallic underneath. Church, plus locker room, plus pawn shop. It carries meaning I can't—won't—name.
The emptiness around these objects makes them worse than if the room were cluttered. Each item stands isolated, deliberate, waiting for its purpose to be fulfilled.
"Nice ski mask," I blurt out, my voice shaky and thin. "Planning a bank heist after my spanking?"
The words dribble into silence.
What. The. Fuck, Emmaleen. What the fuck is wrong with you?
The man doesn't move. Doesn't answer. He only delivers the next slap of the crop against his palm, perfectly on time, as if my words are irrelevant background noise.
The fear of his silence gnaws at me worse than his presence. I've never been good with silence—it's always felt like drowning to me. I babble to keep afloat.
"Look, I know Giovanni put you up to this," I announce to the room, my voice echoing back at me like a mocking twin. "I'm not buying whatever this is. I'm going back upstairs right now?—"
But the door is locked. I remember this suddenly, mid-threat, and my words falter.
The man shifts—not much, just leaning forward slightly in his throne so his masked stare angles down toward me. That single tilt of posture tells me everything I need to know. He’s marking my position. Cataloging me.
Like I’m something to be studied.
The crop keeps its perfect tempo. My pulse involuntarily syncs with it, beating faster with each CRACK. I grip my sleeves, then rub my sweaty palms across my thrift store skirt, desperately making small movements just to feel alive against his stillness.
I feel seen. Not seen as in "look at me in this ridiculous outfit," but X-ray seen. Measured. As if Giovanni's words—"your Master awaits"—took physical form on that chair.
And suddenly I realize this isn't the punchline to a prank. It's the beginning of something I cannot define yet.
Fury crashes against terror inside me—I'm angry that I'm scared, sarcasm bubbling up as half a defense. But beneath it all runs the rattled awareness that the man hasn't spoken. Doesn't need to.
The silence and the crop already hold me.
3
I let Emmaleen's tantrum fade behind me. The pitch of her voice still rings in my ears—indignation wrapped in fear, packaged as bravery. Entertaining, but ultimately irrelevant. What matters isn't her outburst but what follows it.
The moment when realization settles in.
When questions replace accusations.
When doubt replaces certainty.
That's the moment I'm waiting for.
The kitchen gleams under recessed lighting. Everything in its place. Countertops wiped clean. I don't tolerate disorder.
Coffee is a constant. I reach for the grinder without thinking. Twenty-seven grams. I measure them the same way every day. Same as yesterday. Same as tomorrow.
Water heats to precisely 202 degrees. I check the readout because trust is weakness. When the temperature peaks, I pour in a controlled spiral. The grounds bloom. Four minutes. Not a second more.
I push the plunger down. Grounds compress. Separate from liquid.