I wake up gasping, the scent of bergamot and ozone thick in my lungs. Chains rattle faintly around my wrists—not metal, but threads of golden light, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. I’m back in the Velvet Room, though I didn’t call it. The clock ticks backward. Igor sits across from me, smiling, his nose casting a shadow like a scythe. "Ah, Elizabeth," he murmurs, "you’ve returned… drawn not by fate, but by feeling."

Before I can respond, the door opens. Margaret enters, tray in hand, eyes downcast. But when she lifts them—just for a moment—I see it: the crack in her composure. A tremor in her fingers. She sets down the tea, and her pinky brushes mine. A jolt runs through me, sharp as a lightning strike. The teacup cracks.

"Emotions run high tonight," Igor observes, sipping calmly. "Dangerous, for a guest so… entangled."

Margaret doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. But her lips part, as if begging me to say something—anything—that shouldn’t be said.

The air hums. A choice forms in my chest.