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Chapter 27: Shattered Control

And maybe that was why, before I could stop myself, I spoke again.

"If I'm going to live here," I said, my voice softer now, "then at least let me see your face."

The Front Man went still.

The air grew thick between us, charged with something I couldn't quite place. My heart pounded as I watched him, waiting.

Then, finally, he answered.

"Not now."

Disappointment curled in my chest, but before I could say anything. The conversation was over.

I exhaled slowly, my mind spinning. I had won something—not everything, but something.

For now, it would have to be enough.

The silence between us stretched, thick and suffocating. Swallowing, I lifted my gaze toward him. "Can you take me back to my room?" My voice was quiet, but steady.

He didn't hesitate. "Come."

I pushed myself up, my body still weak from exhaustion, and took a shaky step forward. Before I could steady myself, a gloved hand caught my wrist, stopping me.

I tensed.

The Front Man didn't speak as his fingers curled slightly around my wrist, his grip firm but not forceful. A silent reminder that I was still under his control, whether I liked it or not.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then, with a small tug, he guided me forward.

I followed him out of his room, the warmth of his hand lingering even as he released me once we were in the hallway. The air outside was cool, the lighting dim, casting long shadows along the sleek, sterile walls.

I tried to memorize the turns, the doors, the paths. But everything looked the same—endless corridors of polished black and deep crimson, the only sound being the soft, rhythmic steps of our feet against the floor.

Halfway down the hall, I hesitated.

Without thinking, my pace slowed, and I nearly stopped walking altogether.

The Front Man noticed instantly. He turned slightly, glancing down at me. "Keep walking." His voice was calm, but edged with something unreadable.

I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing myself forward again. But I didn't even know why I had stopped. Maybe because this moment—this walk beside him, with no threats or games or life-or-death decisions—felt surreal.

Maybe because, for the first time since the games ended, I felt like I was stepping into something unknown.

When we reached my door, I stopped in front of it, my hands curling into fists at my sides.

I felt him behind me—his presence looming, but not suffocating.

Slowly, I turned to face him. He stood there, motionless, his mask hiding whatever expression he might have had.

For a fleeting second, I wanted to say something. Maybe ask him again what this all meant, what he truly wanted from me. But the words never came.

Instead, his gloved hand lifted once more, this time reaching for my shoulder.

The contact was brief. A single, solid press of his palm against me, like an unspoken reassurance—or a warning. Then, just as quickly, he let go.

I stepped inside, the door shutting behind me with a quiet finality.

And just like that, I was alone again.

I let out a slow breath, turning to take in my surroundings. My new room.

It was nothing like the dorm I had once shared with the other players. Nor my apartment before joining the games. This space was mine—clean, modern, unsettlingly comfortable. The bed was soft, the lighting warm, the air carrying a faint, sterile scent. A dresser stood neatly against the wall, along with a small seating area, and a bathroom door just to the side.

I ran my fingers over the smooth wood of the dresser, my mind racing.

This was my life. For now.

I didn't know how long I'd be here, what he truly wanted from me, or if I would ever get real answers. But one thing was certain—escape wasn't an option.

Not yet.

I sank onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.

What was I supposed to do now?

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ.

AN- sorry for the late story update !
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