I slid past the curtains leading to the backstage area of the theater, each step creaking beneath my weight with sounds that echoed in the confined space despite my attempts at quiet movement.
In my hands I carried a silver tray that had probably been expensive once before years of tarnish and neglect had dulled its shine, balanced carefully to prevent spilling the steaming pot of tea sitting atop it alongside a single porcelain cup decorated with faded floral patterns.
The backstage area sprawled around me in organized chaos—props stacked against walls in precarious towers that defied gravity through sheer stubbornness, costume racks overflowing with garments in every conceivable style and color, painted backdrops leaning at angles that suggested they were one strong breeze away from total collapse.
Dust motes danced in the weak light filtering through cracks in the walls, creating shifting patterns that looked almost alive in the dimness, and the air carried that particular musty smell of old fabric, dried paint, and spaces that didn’t see enough ventilation.
At the far end of this controlled disaster sat the small room where we’d been keeping Elvina, its door marked by nothing except a brass handle that had lost most of its plating and a faint line of light seeping through the gap at the bottom.
I approached it with measured steps, shifting the tray to one hand so I could grip the handle and push the door open with deliberate slowness, letting the hinges announce my presence with their characteristic squeal of protest.
Elvina jolted upright from where she’d been sleeping on the floor, her body snapping to alertness with the panicked energy of someone who’d learned that unexpected sounds often preceded pain.
Her emerald eyes—still beautiful despite everything, still carrying that vivid intensity even dulled by exhaustion and fear—fixed on me with immediate wariness, tracking from my face to the tray I carried and back again.
"Loona," she breathed, and her voice carried layers I couldn’t quite parse—relief maybe, that it was me instead of someone crueler, mixed with the ever-present worry that had become her default state since arriving here. "I didn’t hear you coming. You startled me."
I arranged my expression into something approaching friendly concern, letting warmth color my features as I stepped fully into the room and nudged the door closed behind me with one foot.
"Sorry about that. Wasn’t trying to sneak up on you or anything dramatic like that. Just bringing you something." I lifted the tray slightly, displaying the tea service with casual pride. "Thought you might appreciate a hot drink. It gets cold in here at night, and you don’t exactly have blankets or proper heating."
She studied me for a long moment, clearly trying to determine if this was genuine kindness or the preamble to something worse, her eyes searching my face for tells, warnings, or anything that might give her advance notice of whatever fresh hell was about to unfold.
Finally she seemed to decide that accepting the gesture at face value was safer than questioning it. "That’s... thoughtful of you. Thank you. I didn’t expect—" She cut herself off, probably realizing that finishing that sentence with "kindness" or "consideration" would implicitly acknowledge how badly she expected to be treated.
I set the tray down on a nearby surface—that desk with the cracked mirror that had probably been used for makeup application in better days—and settled into a casual lean against the wall, projecting the kind of relaxed energy that suggested I had all the time in the world for pleasant conversation.
"How are you holding up? I know the accommodations aren’t exactly luxury, but we’ve been keeping you fed and watered at least. No one’s been mistreating you, have they?"
"No," she said quickly, perhaps too quickly, like she was afraid that admitting mistreatment might result in worse treatment. "Everyone’s been... professional. Distant, but professional. Felix won’t even look at me when he brings me food." A shadow crossed her face at that, some emotion too complex to name. "I suppose I can’t blame him for that."
"He’s still processing what you’ve done to Mia," I said with deliberate gentleness, letting understanding color my tone. "Give him time. Trauma doesn’t just evaporate because circumstances change." I paused, then shifted the conversation toward safer territory. "Are you sleeping okay? I know the floor can’t be comfortable, and the rope probably doesn’t help."
She shifted slightly, testing her bonds with the automatic gesture of someone who’d done it countless times hoping for different results. "I manage. Sleep comes eventually, even if it’s not restful. Dreams are..." She trailed off, and I could see memories flickering behind her eyes that she didn’t want to voice. "The dreams aren’t pleasant."
"I can imagine," I said, and meant it with surprising sincerity because I knew exactly what kind of nightmares trauma generated—I had my own collection to draw from.
We fell into small talk then, the kind of meaningless conversational filler that people use to avoid addressing larger issues hanging between them like storm clouds. I asked about whether the food portions were adequate, whether she needed anything specific for basic hygiene, whether the temperature was bearable or if we should bring down additional layers.
She answered with increasing comfort, her shoulders gradually relaxing as the conversation remained pleasant and unthreatening, her guard lowering incrementally with each exchange that didn’t result in pain or humiliation.
But I could see suspicion lurking beneath her growing ease, that instinct honed by survival telling her that something felt off about this entire interaction, that kindness from me specifically carried implications she couldn’t quite identify but knew existed.
"Loona," she said carefully, interrupting my question about whether she preferred her next meal to include meat or just vegetables, "why are you really here? This is... nice, genuinely nice, but it’s not like you to just drop in for friendly chat."
I pushed off from the wall with a smile that aimed for reassuring but probably landed somewhere closer to dismissive. "Can’t a person just check on their prisoner without ulterior motives? Maybe I’m developing a conscience. Stranger things have happened."
I gestured toward the tea service still sitting untouched on the desk. "Speaking of which, you should drink that before it gets cold. I went through the trouble of bringing it over here, least you could do is actually consume it."
Elvina’s eyes flicked to the teapot and cup, then back to me, and I saw calculation happening behind her expression as she tried to work out what angle I was playing.
"That’s kind of you," she said slowly, "but I’m actually not very thirsty right now. Maybe later? I appreciate the gesture though—"
My expression darkened then, the friendly warmth draining away like water down a sink to be replaced with something harder and considerably less negotiable.
"I insist," I said, and my voice carried an edge that transformed the offer from suggestion to command, the shift so abrupt it might as well have been a physical blow. "Drink the tea, Elvina. Now."
She let out a small squeak of surprise and fear. "I—okay. Yes. Of course. I’ll drink it." The words tumbled out in a rush, capitulation happening so fast it might’ve been funny under different circumstances.
I moved to the desk and poured tea into the cup with deliberate care, watching the dark amber liquid flow from spout to porcelain in a stream that steamed and released fragrant vapors into the stale air of the small room.
The scent was actually quite pleasant—floral notes mixed with something earthier, bergamot maybe, the kind of tea that cost more than most people earned in a week. I’d specifically chosen something high-quality because what I was about to do seemed to require at least that small gesture toward civility.
I crouched down beside Elvina, bringing myself to her eye level, and held the cup close to her lips while my other hand moved to support the back of her head with surprising gentleness.
Her face flushed slightly—embarrassment at the intimacy of being fed like a child mixing with lingering fear about what this might actually mean—and she opened her mouth with visible reluctance, parting her lips just enough to accept the liquid I tilted carefully toward them.
The tea flowed across her tongue and down her throat in small swallows, and I watched her process the taste with the focused attention of someone cataloging every detail for later analysis.
She took three good mouthfuls before I pulled the cup away, setting it aside and studying her expression with what probably looked like friendly curiosity.
"How does it taste?" I asked, letting warmth return to my voice as though I genuinely cared about her beverage preferences.
Elvina’s face brightened with surprise that looked entirely genuine, her eyes widening slightly as she processed the flavors still lingering on her palate.
"It’s actually really good? Better than I expected, honestly. There’s this subtle sweetness underneath the floral notes, and it’s smooth in a way cheap tea never manages to be. Where did you even get something this—"
Her face turned grim mid-sentence, color draining from her cheeks so fast she went from flushed to corpse-pale in the span of a heartbeat. Her eyes went wide with a different kind of surprise now, shock mixing with dawning horror as her body registered something her conscious mind hadn’t caught up to yet.
Then she vomited blood.