A dull, rhythmic pounding echoed in William's skull. A slow, heavy drag of consciousness pulled him upward, fighting against the fog that clung to his mind like a thick mist over deep water. His fingers twitched against cold fabric—velvet, maybe?—and his limbs felt sluggish, weighted down by something unseen.
He was lying down. A couch? A chaise? His thoughts were slow to piece together, fragmented like shattered glass.
Then, a voice. Muffled. Distant. He's waking up.
William's lashes fluttered open, and the world tilted. The ceiling above him was carved with intricate molding, a chandelier's crystals refracting dim light in muted gold. His breath hitched as awareness sharpened, like a knife dragged against stone. He wasn't where he had been before.
His last memory: the meeting. A man in a merlot suit. The sting of something sharp in his leg. And then—nothing.
A chair scraped against the polished floor. Someone moved closer. William forced himself upright, blinking against the dizziness. His suit jacket was gone, his shirt slightly unbuttoned at the collar, but he wasn't bound. That was either a mistake or a message.
A woman stood a few feet away, half-shrouded in shadows. Her mask—black and gold, shaped like a raven's face—obscured everything but her mouth, which curved into something too sharp to be a smile.
"Glad to see you're not dead." Her voice was smooth, deliberate. "That would've been inconvenient."
William swallowed, his throat dry. "How generous of you."
She tilted her head. "You were out for longer than expected."
The woman turned slightly, nodding toward something behind him. William followed her gaze—and spotted a mask resting on the nearby table.
Black. Simple. Elegantly designed to blend in among the crowd.
"The masquerade is in two days," she said. "You'll be attending."
His jaw tightened. Why? The pieces were still shifting, the full picture not yet clear, but one thing was certain—whoever had arranged this didn't plan on letting him walk away without playing his part.
William pushed himself up, steadying against the back of the couch. "And if I refuse?"
She smiled this time, slow and knowing. "Then you leave in worse shape than you arrived."
The distant hum of the city reached him through the walls. He had two days before the masquerade. Two days to figure out what game he was being forced into—and whether he could turn it to his advantage.
William picked up the mask, turning it over in his hands.
He had no choice.
But that didn't mean he had to play by their rules.