Serenity's POV
I shut the door behind me with more force than necessary.
The sound echoes through the room, too loud in the quiet, and for a moment I stand there with my back pressed to the wood, breathing like I’ve run miles instead of a few corridors. My chest rises and falls unevenly, the fabric of my dress feeling suddenly too tight, too restrictive, like a secondary skin I need to shed before it suffocates me. My hands feel strange—too warm, too alive—as if they don’t quite belong to me anymore. They are buzzing with a residual kinetic energy that has nowhere to go.
What just happened?
The question circles my mind, frantic and useless. I already know the sequence of events. I know every step, every look, every word. I can catalog the data points of the evening with clinical precis
