Isadora closes the door with a soft click, the sound echoing through the silent house like a final judgment. You can hear the lock engage from the other side. Meanwhile, Clara sits on the couch next to you, her perfume filling your nostrils with a sickly sweet scent as she casually balances a kitchen knife on her fingertips. The sharp edge catches the dim light streaming through the curtains.

"There's no point in shouting, darling," she says, her voice honeyed but lacking any real warmth. Her free hand brushes against your arm, her touch lingering just a moment too long. The knife continues its silent rotation between her fingers.

"No one can hear you up here," Isadora adds, moving to stand in front of you, blocking any possible escape route. Her eyes study you intensely, like a scientist examining a fascinating specimen. "Here, you're ours alone. Forever."