Her Unrequited Love

Chapter 6 - Her Master appeared

The tearing pain in her chest yanked Easther out of a heavy, dreamless slumber.

Her obsidian eyes, shadowed by thick lashes that trembled like tiny fans, fluttered open to a room she did not recognize. The ceiling above was stark white, the sharp scent of disinfectant permeating the air. Beneath her was a narrow bed, and nearby sat a low set of sofas and a single high stool beside a tray of medical instruments.

A sigh of relief escaped her pale lips when she realized she was alone.

But the relief was fleeting. The image of a pair of cold, merciless eyes—burning deep and unyielding—flashed across her mind. Her chest tightened with unease. It had only been a dream… hadn’t it?

Gritting her teeth against the sharp pain tearing through her ribs, Easther forced herself upright. Her head spun, but she endured it. Thin tubes snaked from her arms, glimmering faintly in the sterile light. A ventilator mask clung tightly to her face, suffocating more than it helped.

One by one, she tore the tubes free, and yanked the ventilator off, setting it aside with her callused hand . Her gaze landed on the steel tray resting atop the stool. Without hesitation, she seized the scissors and scalpel, their weight cold and oddly reassuring in her grip.

Easther moved toward the door with deliberate, silent steps. Pressing her ear against its surface, she strained to catch even the faintest sound.

Nothing. No footsteps, no voices. Only silence.

She eased the door open, slipping into the hallway. The hem of her thin hospital gown brushed against her bare legs, her feet whispering against the cold floor. She hadn’t found shoes—perhaps they hadn’t given her any.

But as soon as she stepped out, the world around her shifted.

Where the room had been sterile, clean, and white, the corridor beyond stretched like another realm entirely—dimly lit, walls stained with age, and shadows pooled in the corners as though waiting to swallow her whole.

Easther was startled the moment she stepped into the hallway. She had expected more sterile white corridors, humming machinery, or perhaps the quiet shuffle of nurses. Instead, she was greeted by an entirely different world.

The walls were adorned with oil paintings from the mid-eighteenth century: haunting portraits of solemn nobles, gallant knights frozen in faded glory, and landscapes tinted with hues of decay. Each canvas was framed in heavy gilt, their edges dulled with age yet still gleaming faintly in the flickering glow of candlelight.

Silver lampstands and candleholders lined the hallway, the flames within burning steadily. Melted wax had formed grotesque sculptures of hardened rivulets, frozen mid-drip where they had overflowed onto the floor. The air was perfumed faintly with a mix of wax, dust, and the acrid tang of age.

The hospital room she had awoken in—clinical, modern, and smelling of disinfectant—now felt like a cruel illusion. This place, with its gothic elegance and archaic warmth, erased any trace of that notion.

Earlier, Easther had assumed she was in a hospital. Now she knew better.

She had never seen this place before.

Her obsidian eyes narrowed with suspicion. Every breath came shallow, sharp, controlled; a deeper breath punished her with agony, as though her lungs were being shredded from the inside. Still, she moved forward, forcing her body to comply despite its protests.

The hallway was vast—far too long, far too silent. Paintings and relics glared down at her as she passed, their candlelit gazes seeming to follow her steps. Several polished doors stood on either side, each one closed, each one a potential threat.

Her hand tightened around the scalpel and scissors she clutched, cold steel her only comfort. She could not know whether those who had brought her here were allies or enemies. The fact that someone had treated her wounds meant she wasn’t discarded as a corpse. But in her world, motives were rarely so merciful.

Her body was weakened—she could feel it in her every step. At least half of her strength was gone, her limbs sluggish, her movements dulled. Charging into a fight now would be nothing short of suicide. Escape would be wiser. Always wiser.

Her thoughts flickered back to the trial grounds—the deafening roar of the crowd, the blinding pain as the big-chested woman shot her, the manic laughter echoing nonsense. Easther had driven her scalpel deep, killed her with the Golden Vexillum, and then… the sound of whirring blades above, a chopper, her knees buckling as the world darkened.

And in those final moments, before unconsciousness claimed her, she had seen it: a face. Her Master’s face.

The memory made her shudder. She wanted to believe it had been an illusion—her mind’s cruel trick to wring the last drop of strength from her. After all, the image of Alphonso Koza, her Master, had been her lifelong nightmare and motivation. He was her fear incarnate, the embodiment of punishment, and failure in his eyes was unforgivable.

But now, standing in this candlelit corridor, she could no longer dismiss it as hallucination.

Her chest tightened—not from injury, but from dread. If it truly was Master who had taken her, then punishment was not a possibility. It was inevitable.

Her jaw clenched. She frowned, her heart filled with unease. She had failed to seize the Golden Vexillum. She had fallen unconscious like a pathetic child in the middle of the competition. She was unworthy.

And yet… what if she did not return? What if she lingered here, vanished for just a little while? A dangerous thought sparked in her mind, one she quickly buried, though not before her eyes betrayed her with a fleeting glint of rebellion.

Shaking her head, she focused on the sound of birds. Somewhere ahead, faint chirps carried through the corridor—perhaps there was an opening, a garden, a forest. An escape. She should move. Quietly. Quickly.

Her bare feet made no sound as she glided down the hallway, her face frosted with cold determination. Every movement of her clear, wide eyes was sharp, vigilant, the gaze of a predator forced into the role of prey.

Unaware of her own state, she advanced. The hospital gown that clung loosely to her was entirely backless, tied only by a flimsy string. Her snow-pale skin and youthful curves were exposed to the chill air. She did not notice—her mind sharpened only on survival, not modesty.

But she was not alone.

Behind her, the door creaked open. A long, powerful leg stepped into the candlelit hallway—clad in sharp-cut black trousers that seemed to slice through the silence.

Then he appeared.

Alphonso Koza.