I jolted awake as Farrah shook me, her voice pulling me from the haze. The soft hum of the Vault and the muted colors of the alley came back into focus. I blinked, disoriented, my heart racing as I realized what had happened.
"You've been out for, like, two hours," Farrah said, casually, as if that was no big deal.
My chest tightened. Two hours? "Why did you let me sleep so long?" I asked, my voice rising with panic. I scrambled to my feet, wiping the sleep from my eyes. "I have to go."
Farrah blinked, confused, "You clearly needed it. What's the big deal? What are you so worried about?"
But I wasn't listening. My mind was racing. The envelopes, Oliver, Marge—I didn't have time to explain. I was already sprinting back down the winding corridors of the Vault, my feet pounding against the floor, each step sending a new rush of anxiety through me.
The relaxing warmth of the Nebula hadn't worn off completely but temporarily replaced by cold dread.
I pushed through the heavy door of the Isles, my heart in my throat, and was immediately met with Marge's disapproving gaze. She didn't say a word at first, just looked at me up and down, her lips pressed into a tight line.
"Oliver was looking for you," she said finally, her tone low and pointed. A cold wave of panic washed over me.
"I—I delivered everything," I stammered. "I just lost track of time. I—" Marge raised a hand, silencing my excuses. "He'll be back shortly. And don't leave again until he does."
I nodded quickly, turning to head toward my room, but she wasn't done. "You might want to clean yourself up in the meantime," she added, her eyes scanning over me. "You're sweaty and… well, you look a bit rough."
I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her words. I hadn't even realized how disheveled I'd become. The sweat from running, the dirt from the floor of the Vault, it all clung to me like a second skin.
I nodded again, but before I could move, Marge's voice cut through once more. "Oh, and Aspen dropped off some extra clothes for you," she said, her tone almost casual, but I caught the tinge of something in her eyes. "She guessed your size."
The mention of Aspen sent a chill down my spine. I could still hear her voice in my head, her cold words about Oliver, about me. I felt my stomach tighten, a gnawing sense of dread crawling back up from the pit of my gut.
I muttered a quick thanks and hurried to my room, my mind spinning with a mix of confusion and fear. The thought of Aspen lingered, her warning echoing in my ears. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was closing in on me, something bigger than just lost time or dirty clothes.
I stepped into my room and found the small pile of clothes neatly folded on the bed. Casual but stylish—jeans, a few tops, and even a new pair of boots. I stared at them for a moment. I hesitated before picking up one of the tops. It was simple but sleek, a black tank with thin straps. I ran my fingers over the fabric, smooth and expensive compared to the worn-out, second-hand clothes I had on.
I looked down at myself, suddenly all too aware of the state I was in. My jeans were torn, not in a stylish way but from actual wear. My shoes were scuffed and beaten. Everything felt so… used. Aspen, with her immaculate appearance and her sharp words, had chosen these outfits like she knew my style personally. They were exactly what I would've picked out for myself, had I the means to do so. She had good taste —too good, it seemed.
I felt a strange mixture of gratitude and discomfort settle in my chest. Was this a gift, or was it another way to remind me of my place here? A reminder that she was always one step ahead, always more put together, more in control.
I made my way to the shower, feeling a mix of tension and relief. As I rounded the corner, I was surprised—and a little relieved—to see Leo there again, standing under the hot spray, steam billowing around him like a fog. A smile tugged at my lips. "Well, well," I called out, teasing.
Leo turned, a grin spreading across his face. "I'm starting to think you're stalking me." He chuckled, his deep laugh echoing in the tiled room. "But I don't mind the company."
I laughed softly and stepped into the shower with him, the hot water immediately soothing the tension in my muscles. We stood under the stream together, letting the warmth of the water fill the silence. It felt surprisingly comfortable—easy, even. I hadn't expected to find moments like this in the Vault.
"So, how're the clients treating you?" Leo asked, his eyes catching the bruise around my eye. His tone was casual, but I could hear the concern under it. "Must've been a rough one, judging by that shiner."
I stiffened a little but quickly tried to shrug it off. "Things are fine. Nothing I can't handle." His eyebrows furrowed, clearly not convinced. He looked at me with a mix of skepticism and concern. "That black eye'll fade quick, but… you sure you're alright?"
I forced a smile, "yeah, I've had a few of these in my day. No big deal." I tried to sound casual, brushing it off like it was nothing. On the outside, I acted unbothered, like the bruises were just part of the job, something I'd gotten used to. B
A part of me wanted to tell Leo everything, but the other part warned me against it. I wasn't sure I could trust anyone here, even Leo. I turned my face into the spray of the water, trying to hide the conflict brewing inside me. My morals were shifting, bending under the weight of this place. I'd always had a rough edge, a survivor's instinct. But now? I was starting to wonder if the Vault was changing me into someone I barely recognized.
I glanced at Leo again, his easygoing smile still in place, as if he hadn't noticed the war inside my head. He shared some of his old stories from before the Vault, tales of his misadventures and close calls. I found myself laughing at his anecdotes about getting into trouble and the bizarre situations he'd found himself in. It was a welcome distraction, the warmth of the water mixing with the warmth of our shared laughter.
In turn, I opened up a bit about my own past. I told him about the streets I'd grown up on, the fleeting moments of normalcy amid the chaos, and the little victories that kept me going. It was strange, talking so openly, but it felt good to reminisce about a life that seemed so distant now. When we finally stepped out of the shower, Leo's easy demeanor was comforting.
As I grabbed a towel, he looked at me with a friendly smile. "If you need another round of girl-talk," he said with a wink, "just come find me. I'm in room 312." His tone was casual, but there was a genuine warmth in his offer.
I smiled back, appreciating the gesture. "Thanks, I might just take you up on that." With a final nod, I headed back to my room.
The act of drying off felt soothing, a simple but grounding routine that helped clear my mind.
As I dressed in the fresh clothes Aspen had left for me, I couldn't help but admire the kindness Leo had shown. His friendliness comforting constant in a place that often felt uncertain and cruel.
I took a deep breath and looked at myself in the mirror. As I pulled on the boots, sturdy but stylish, I felt a little stronger, a little more put-together. But the unease lingered, a constant reminder that even in this small moment of comfort, I was still navigating someone else's game. And Aspen? She was playing it with expert precision.
I laid across the daybed, letting my hair air-dry and fall into natural waves. As I drifted back into a doze, the warmth of the room made it easy to relax. I was jolted awake by a soft touch against my face. A smile spread across my lips, my mind briefly conjuring Oliver's presence. But as my eyes fluttered open, the dreamlike haze shattered.
It wasn't Oliver.
It was the guard from the theater. Panic surged through me as I quickly sat up, my body tensing. The guard's touch, though seemingly gentle, felt invasive and unsettling. My heart raced with the realization that I really had been set up. I thought that my black eye was supposed to mean I wouldn't be taking any clients until it healed.
His expression was a mix of curiosity and something darker, a predatory edge that made my skin crawl. I scrambled off the daybed, trying to distance myself. The room, once a refuge, now felt like a prison. I stared at him, my pulse throbbing as he brushed his fingers through my hair. "Calm down," he said, his voice too smooth. He noticed my black eye and smirked. "Looks like you've already found trouble. Didn't take long, did it?"
I frowned, trying to piece together the situation. "Does Marge know you're in here?" He shrugged nonchalantly. My stomach twisted. He turned off the light, plunging the room into near darkness. "Wouldn't want anyone seeing in here," he muttered with a cruel edge to his voice.
There was barely enough visibility to make out the shapes in the room, adding to my sense of isolation. He grabbed me, pressing me against the wall, his grip tightening around my throat with one hand, cutting off my air and making my heart race in panic. With his other hand, he yanked down my pants, the cool air hitting my exposed skin. His own pants followed, and I could see the cruel satisfaction in his eyes.
The sheer force of his actions left me helpless, struggling to breathe as he positioned himself against me. I struggled to push through the pain, each thrust feeling like a stab. I tried to escape mentally, to drift away to some safe place, but without the Nebula's full haze to numb the edges, I was trapped in the harsh reality.
Each sensation was raw, unfiltered, and unrelenting. My attempts to retreat into my mind only left me feeling more exposed and vulnerable. There was no crutch to cling to, no way to dull the acute reality of what was happening. All I could do was endure, desperately trying to find any semblance of mental refuge amidst the relentless, sharp pain.
He pulled out abruptly and finished on the floor, his release staining the surface beneath us. Panting heavily, he released his grip on my throat and stepped back, his satisfaction evident in the smirk on his face.
"Clean this up," he said coldly, tossing me the towel I had used to dry myself after the shower. The once-white fabric was now tainted with the grime of the situation. I stared at the towel in disbelief, my mind reeling from the ordeal. It felt like a cruel reminder of the degradation I had just endured.
Struggling to regain some semblance of composure, my hands trembled as I moved to clean the mess. Each motion felt like a punishment, a grim acknowledgment of the violation I had just suffered.
This encounter of domination felt different in contrast to what I had come to expect in the Violet Room. I had always assumed that Oliver's words about the best clients meant they would treat me with a certain respect or at least offer some semblance of control over the situation.
But now, I questioned everything. Did Marge send this man to remind me that I didn't have any free will? Was this an intentional part of my indoctrination, a way to break me down further? The thought gnawed at me, leaving me uncertain about the true nature of my role here.
I grappled with the dissonance between the enjoyment I had previously found in domination and the brutal reality of this encounter. It was painfully relentless, not just physically but mentally as well. It made me question the very nature of domination versus rape. Did the concept of rape even exist in the Isles, or was it simply a term unfamiliar with in this twisted world?
I was left to wonder if the lines had blurred beyond recognition, or if my own understanding of consent and control was being systematically dismantled. This realization left me with a deep, unsettling confusion, as I tried to reconcile what I had just endured.
I thought back to my life on the streets, a time when even amidst the chaos, I had some semblance of control over my sexual experiences. Despite the harsh circumstances, I could set boundaries, negotiate terms, and assert my own limits. It wasn't ideal, but it was a form of autonomy I took for granted.
The loss of control I felt now made me question the very essence of my existence in the Isles. How had I come to accept this erosion of my agency? And more importantly, how would I navigate a world where even the most basic sense of control seemed to be slipping through my fingers?
He chuckled, a cruel, mocking sound that filled the room. "Pathetic," he sneered, watching with a twisted satisfaction as I pulled my pants back up, buttoning them with shaking hands. I felt a surge of fury rise within me, a desperate, primal need to reclaim some semblance of control.
Every ounce of self-control I had been clinging to shattered. Without thinking, I lunged at him, my fists swinging wildly as I fought him with all my strength. But he was bigger, stronger, and he easily overpowered me. He pinned me to the floor, his laughter echoing around me as he reveled in my futile attempt to fight back.
My struggles only seemed to amuse him more, his mocking eyes gleaming with the sadistic pleasure of having reduced me to this state of helpless rage.
As I laid there, my energy spent and my anger boiling over, I felt the weight of my powerlessness settle heavily on me. The fight had been futile, a desperate act born from the crushing realization that my control had slipped entirely from my grasp. The room felt suffocating, the laughter and my own turmoil mixing into a jarring cacophony.
His body was abruptly torn from mine, and I blinked in shock, my heart pounding in my chest. Relief washed over me as I saw Oliver standing there, his presence a welcoming in the nightmare I had just endured.
Without a word, he shoved the man out of my room with a powerful, decisive push. I could hear the scuffle of feet and the man's startled exclamations before a deafening gunshot cut through the chaos.
The sound was so loud, it felt like a physical blow, and it left my ears ringing painfully. I instinctively clutched my ears, my eyes squeezed shut as the intense noise reverberated in my head. The sharp, metallic scent of gunfire filled the air, mingling with the remnants of my fear and confusion.
Oliver's silhouette loomed over me, but my senses were still overwhelmed by the sudden burst of sound, leaving me dazed and disoriented.
His voice cut through the haze, a concerned edge to his tone. "Lux, are you okay?" I was too stunned to respond, my mouth opening and closing without sound. My eyes darted to the open door, and I saw the gruesome aftermath of the gunshot: brain matter smeared across the once-pristine carpet.
The reality of it all was jarring. I had seen people get shot before, but never so close, and never with myself so directly involved. The scene felt surreal, a twisted echo of the violence I'd been subjected to. A wave of responsibility washed over me, a deep-seated guilt for the chaos that had unfolded.
Despite everything, I felt an inexplicable sympathy for the man who had just been killed. Anger flared inside me at the thought of my own compassion. How could I feel anything but disdain after what he had done?
The mix of relief and guilt churned inside me, leaving me conflicted and ashamed. Oliver's concerned voice broke through my stunned silence. "Lux?" His question snapped me back to reality.
I stared blankly as he continued, "The guy must have gotten through while Marge was dealing with an issue in Class B rooms." Doubt crept in. I couldn't shake the feeling that this might have been a setup.
My thoughts were interrupted as Oliver pulled out his phone and made a quick call. "Need a cleanup in Class A," he said tersely before ending the call. He reached down, helping me up from the floor, and took my hand. "Come on," he said, guiding me towards the hall leading to the front desk.
As we moved, I saw clients and debtors emerging from their rooms, bewildered by the commotion. Oliver addressed them firmly, "Go back to what you were doing. All clients will be refunded for the minor inconvenience."
I was still too shaken to speak, my mind reeling from the recent events. Oliver led me to a seat and instructed me to stay put. He then walked towards the Class B corridor. After a few minutes, he returned with Marge in tow. Marge's gaze swept down the corridor, taking in the bloody aftermath. Her eyes met mine with a look of deep empathy.
"I knew that guy was trouble," she said to Oliver, her voice edged with frustration, "I told you that you should have fired him already."
Oliver countered, "I needed someone to work the theater. With my regulars always on vacation around the same time, it's been hard to keep things running smoothly."
Marge's frown deepened. She looked back at me with a sympathetic nod, acknowledging the ordeal I had just endured.
Oliver assured Marge, "I'm going to implement a new rule. Employees in the same department won't be allowed to take vacations at the same time, and we'll prioritize based on seniority." Marge shot back with a snarky tone, "You're gonna get a lot of pushbacks from the guys on this one. The guys like to vacation together for boys' weekends. They work so well because you treat them well."
Oliver replied, "but I can't let the business suffer over their personal plans."
Marge suggested, "Let them keep their boys' weekends, but hire more staff. There's plenty of extra profit from the theater orchestra auctions to cover it."
Oliver looked at me and asked, "You ready for a temporary promotion?" I stared at him, still numb from everything that had just happened. My mind was racing, and I could barely process what he was saying.
Marge's eyes widened in shock. "It's not a great idea to put one of the debtors into Vault work," she said quickly, "we've already talked about this."
Oliver turned his gaze to her, a firm expression on his face. "You run the books, I run the Vault."
Marge quickly interjected, "You're letting your feelings get in the way of business decisions." Oliver shot back, his voice cold and sharp, "Had you done your job quicker, none of this would have happened. I pay you too well for mistakes like these to be made. I give you a lot of leeway, and you're well taken care of. There's no excuse for this." He continued, his gaze sweeping over us. "It's your responsibility to keep an eye on the corridors. When you're away, you should be using an attendant in your place. Things are about to change around here. Everyone's been getting too relaxed, and mistakes will no longer be tolerated."
Oliver turned to me, his expression softening as he reached for my hand. The warmth of his touch was a welcome relief. He led me silently to his office, his grip steady but gentle, as if he feared I might crumble under the weight of everything.
Once inside, he indicated for me to sit in the chair in front of his desk. I watched as he leaned back against the desk, lost in thought.
The silence between us felt overwhelming, filling the room with an almost tangible weight. Neither of us spoke, leaving the air heavy with unspoken words. The quiet wasn't merely awkward but loaded with an intensity that made it difficult to breathe.
Oliver broke the silence, his voice tinged with frustration. "I'm still trying to figure out what to do with you," he admitted, clearly troubled by the recent turmoil in the Vault. "You've stirred up quite a commotion, and I can't have that." He paused, rubbing his temples. "I think one of the Class A girls tipped off the theater guard, but I'm not sure which one. And you—" he said, looking at me intently, "—you've made quite an impression. But it's not clear to me yet if you're a part of the problem or something else entirely."
I noted that Oliver didn't seem to suspect Aspen or Marge. I wondered if he was aware of the growing tension between them but decided it might be best not to bring it up.
Oliver continued, "My shortage of Vault workers is becoming painfully obvious. Some of my people are just fill-ins from the streets, bouncers from clubs. I've got Aspen finding guys that help me fill gaps, but lately, there's been a sense of corruption creeping into the Vault. It's got me questioning everyone's loyalty."
He looked at me with a mix of scrutiny and curiosity. "I knew you might try to take the money and run. I saw you with Farrah, and I figured she'd lead you to an escape route. But your decision to stay—" he said, his voice softening slightly—"it shows a level of loyalty I can't ignore."
His gaze grew more intense. "And for some reason, I'm drawn to you. My feelings are becoming undeniable, and it's frustrating. I didn't expect to find myself in this situation."
His admission hung in the air, and I could feel the weight of his words pressing down on both of us. He moved behind me, the air shifting with the subtle scent of his cologne, filling my senses. Even after everything—the horror I had just endured—there was something about him that pulled at me. I ached for him in a way I didn't fully understand. I wanted him. My obsession was consuming, taking root deeper than I could control. I'd do anything for him, no matter what it cost me.
His hands eased onto my shoulders, firm but gentle, sending a shiver down my spine. He leaned in close, his breath warm against my ear as he whispered, "Are you willing to put in the work?" His words held more than a question—they were a test. And I already knew my answer. I reached behind my head, my fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer. My heart raced as I whispered, "I'd do anything for you." The words slipped out with ease, and I felt the weight of my confession hang in the air between us.
He circled back in front of me, and I instantly felt a wave of nerves. Had I been too forward? Without a word, he reached down, gripping me under my thighs with surprising ease, lifting me off the chair.
He sat me down on his desk, his body pressing firmly against mine. His cheek brushed against mine, and I could feel his breath, hot and heavy, as he growled in my ear, "You better get used to this desk… because working for me, you're gonna be using it a lot." His words, a mix of desire and fear twisting in my gut.
Sitting on his desk, pressed against him, all I could think about was how much I craved him. The pull I felt toward him was undeniable, stronger than anything I'd ever experienced. It wasn't just lust—it was an obsession. I wanted him in every way, to be closer to him, to feel needed by him.
My mind flashed back to the gunshot, to the way he killed that man without hesitation, without a second thought, for me. In this moment, it didn't seem as horrifying as it should've been. Instead, I found myself strangely comforted by it. He would protect me. He had proven it. The blood on the carpet, the violence—it all felt like a distant memory now, blurred and softened by my need for him.
It scared me how much I wanted to be owned by him, how much I needed his approval and attention. I'd do anything for him. A sudden knock on the office door shattered the moment between us. Oliver's eyes held mine for a lingering second, his grip tightening slightly as if to keep the moment intact.
Then, with a sharp exhale, he called out, "Come in." The door creaked open, revealing Marge. She stepped in, her gaze immediately locking onto the scene in front of her —Oliver and me, far too close for it to be professional.
Her eyes narrowed, filled with skepticism and judgment. I could feel her disapproval without her saying a word. "Oliver," she began, her voice steady but with an edge, "I need a moment alone with you."
Her eyes moved back to me, not hiding her disdain. The tension in the room shifted, making me feel like an intruder. Oliver glanced at me briefly before turning to follow Marge out of the room. "Wait here," he instructed, his voice firm, though I could see a trace of tension lingering in his eyes.
As the door closed behind him, leaving me alone, the silence in his office felt almost suffocating. My gaze wandered to the neatly arranged shelves, filled with books, trinkets, and photographs.
Unable to sit still, I stood and slowly made my way over, curiosity getting the better of me. I ran my fingers over the spines of the books, their titles revealing little about the man behind them. They were all perfectly aligned, almost too perfect, as though they were more for show than for reading.
A framed map of Greyfield caught my attention next. It was prominently displayed, larger than any of the photographs or artwork around it. But something about it seemed off. Strange lines crisscrossed the streets, overlaid in a way that didn't make immediate sense. I stepped closer, letting my fingers trace the unusual patterns. I knew Greyfield's streets well enough, but these lines didn't match any routes I recognized.
I tried to reason it out —it could be a map of the Vault, but the layout didn't fit the mental image I had pieced together of the underground complex. The lines led somewhere, but I couldn't tell where or why. My mind raced with possibilities. These markings had to mean something.
As I stood there, trying to make sense of the map, I didn't hear Oliver enter the room. His sudden presence jolted me out of my thoughts, and I nearly jumped. "Didn't mean to startle you," he said with a smirk, walking over to where I stood, his gaze falling on the map as well.
I glanced at him, then back at the strange lines. "What is this? It doesn't match the streets, and it's not the Vault either," I said, my voice full of curiosity. He chuckled softly, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Your curiosity really knows no bounds, does it?"
He leaned in closer to examine the map, a playful edge in his voice. "It's… a little more complicated than it looks…" I felt a surge of frustration. His cryptic tone only made me more eager to know what the lines meant.
"I should know more if I'm going to be working with you," I argued, the frustration bubbling up. "How am I supposed to do my job if I don't understand the Vault?"
Oliver raised an eyebrow, his expression softening but still firm. "Slow down. You're diving in headfirst, and I get that… but you'll learn when the time comes. One step at a time." His voice was calm but carried a sense of finality. I wanted to push back, but I bit my tongue.
The secrets here were layered, and while I was desperate to know them, I understood that pressing too hard too soon might be dangerous. Still, the mystery gnawed at me.
He took my hand, guiding me out of his office and into the quiet, barren corridors. The silence was comforting, a relief from the chaos of earlier. I let myself sink into the peace, grateful for the calm and the thought that I might not have to work in the Isles again. His hand was soft in mine, and for a moment, it felt like everything about him was intimate, but there was always something holding him back—something just out of reach.
As we walked, I couldn't help but think of what Aspen had warned me about. You're naïve, she'd said. And now, as I felt the weight of Oliver's touch, a nagging thought crept in: maybe she was right. Maybe I was being led on in every direction, pulled deeper into something I didn't fully understand. The unease settled in, and I questioned whether Oliver's intentions were as pure as I wanted to believe.