It was a rainy night, and the streetlights flickered faintly as I entered the abandoned theater. The windows were covered in dust, and a thick layer of mildew hung in the air, the seats in the dim light resembling the silent crowd of a ghostly performance. I wasn't even sure why I was here – maybe out of curiosity, maybe for the thrill. But when I stepped onto the stage, I felt it: a cold, oppressive silence, as if time itself was holding its breath.
I noticed him before I saw him – a shadow moving slowly in the dark. He stood completely still at the edge of the stage, his face pale and unmoving like porcelain, eyes deep and black. His hands were long, almost grotesque in their slenderness, ending in silvery tips. It was as if every movement he made was deliberate, controlled – as though he commanded each second perfectly.
"Why are you here?" he asked, and his voice was a whisper that felt like needles pricking at my thoughts.
I wanted to answer, but the words caught in my throat. Everything about him screamed danger – yet I couldn't run. My feet were as if nailed to the floor.
Slowly, he came toward me, his steps so quiet I could hardly hear them. He raised his hand, and his fingers, like the tools of a surgeon, reached out toward my face. It was just a touch, a gentle, cold touch on my forehead, but it felt like my skin was freezing. My heart raced, but my body no longer responded – as if I was being slowly torn away from myself.
"You will be beautiful," he whispered, almost lovingly.
Within minutes, my joints began to ache, and when I looked at my hands, I saw them stiffening, as if I were turning to porcelain. I wanted to scream, run, do anything – but all I could do was stand there, my eyes wide open, trapped in an endless moment of terror.
Since then, I stand here, on the stage, among the others. We are his collection. We are his puppets, trapped in an eternal performance.