Niamph knocked on the door of Cara’s room. After a few seconds, it opened.

"I ordered a sandwich ten minutes ago, what took you—"

Cara stepped out in a bathrobe, a face pack smeared over her skin. She paused mid-sentence when she saw Niamph, then scanned her from head to toe with casual indifference—as if she hadn’t just left her stranded in an unfamiliar country and dumped her luggage like garbage.

Niamph’s voice trembled with a mix of anger and hurt.

"How could you leave me all alone at the airport? And why was my luggage lying outside like trash?"

Cara blinked, then made a face like she didn’t understand a word.

"I did bring your luggage from the airport, didn’t I? You should be grateful for that. As for not keeping it in here—please. Your cheap clothes don’t belong in my personal space."

Niamph’s eyes widened, stunned by the coldness in her tone.

"What if someone had stolen it? My money was in there."

Cara rolled her eyes dramatically.

"Well, it didn't. So stop killing my vibe."

And with that, she slammed the door on Niamph’s face.

Niamph flinched at the bang of the door.

From the inside of the suit Cara huffed in annoyance and shoved her AirPods into her ears.

"That bitch is such an annoying little leech," she muttered, connecting the call.

"Then why did you even take her with you?" her friend asked, clearly confused.

Cara casually picked up a bottle of nail polish and began painting her nails, speaking with a shrug,

"She’s just my backup plan. I know Dad’s going to be furious when he finds out I left. Someone has to take the fall, right? I’ll just say it was all her idea—that she begged me to bring her along so she could see another country."

Her friend laughed on the other end.

"You’re such a cunning fox. But what if she tells the truth?"

Cara scoffed, blowing on her freshly painted nails with a smug smirk.

"As if anyone would believe her."

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She is dancing like a desert nymph, her body swaying with the rhythm of an ancient melody only the wind seems to understand. A sheer veil covering her face, leaving only her eyes visible. Her belly costume shimmered with each movement, barring the curve of her waist, the arch of her hips, as they moved in a hypnotic, seductive rhythm.

Mikhail is watching__no gawking at  her from the shadows, breath caught in his throat. To him, she is the waterhole in the endless wasteland—a forbidden vision in the heart of the desert. His gaze didn't faltered, drinking in every motion as if blinking would shatter the illusion and she’d vanish like a mirage.

She moved closer, her steps slow, deliberate. With the grace of a temptress, she stopped in front of him. Her fingers, delicate and teasing, trailed over the ridges of his abs—slowly, purposefully—as though memorizing every inch of him.

Mikhail’s jaw tensed, his hunger masked behind a stillness that burned.

Mikhail is  undressing her with his gaze—each curve, each sway, peeling away his control layer by layer. He couldn’t resist anymore. In one fluid motion, he pulled her toward him by the waist, his fingers digging into the softness of her bare skin as if  touching the thing that is Scratching his soul.

He stared at her like a starving man witnessing divinity for the first time—his gaze is awed, ravenous, desperate. Slowly, his hand reached up, trembling with need, toward the veil that shielded her face, aching to reveal the mystery that had enslaved his mind…

His fingers brushed the edge of the fabric— Mikhail’s eyes snapped open with a jolt, his chest heaving as if he'd been drowning.

Another night. Another dream. Another haunting moment.

He sat up, running a hand through his damp hair, the room cloaked in darkness. It was becoming a ritual now—waking up breathless, mind fogged with her image. Since that night. Since he saw her.

She wasn’t just a memory anymore. She is a poison in his blood.

His jaw clenched tight, a ticking bomb of frustration under his skin.

Since when did he become this man?

A maniac. Obsessing over a faceless girl like some lovesick fool. Hell, he didn’t even know her name. He had never seen her face. Nothing. Just those eyes—burning through the veil—and the way her body moved, fluid and hypnotic, as if casting a spell on him with every sway of her hips.

And yet, she was engraved into his mind like scripture. A verse written in sin.

He growled under his breath, throwing the silk sheets off him and swinging his legs over the bed, his muscles tensed with unrest.

This wasn’t him. Mikhail Cozlov didn’t crave. He didn’t obsess. And he sure as hell didn’t lose control over a women. If he could, he would erase that moment—rip it from time, from memory, from existence.

But he couldn’t.

And that infuriated him more than anything.

He stood up, bare feet pressing against the cold marble floor as he walked with measured steps—like a storm barely contained—towards a door no one dared to touch.

The lock clicked open.

Mikhail entered the room—the only sanctuary he had that didn’t reek of blood, gunpowder. His sculpture room. A space forbidden to all.

Dim lights cast eerie shadows across the walls, falling on figures frozen in time. Sculptures which looks haunting, enigmatic, unsettling in their quiet intensity—stood around him like silent witnesses to the chaos inside his mind. Some looked tortured, as if trapped in a scream. Others were beautiful, but with a disturbing edge, as if perfection itself had been carved under a threat.

He ran his hands through a block of clay, the coolness grounding him. He pressed his fingers into it with force, almost like he wanted it to feel pain. This was his escape. His therapy. His violence made in still.

This wasn’t the art of a dreamer. This was the art of a man with demons far louder than silence.

But tonight, he didn’t want to sculpt his demons.

Tonight, he wanted to sculpt her.

The air in the room thickened as Mikhail took the block of untouched clay, dragging it to the center of the space. His fingers, calloused from years of violence and creation, dug into it with uncharacteristic tenderness.

Each press of his palm was deliberate, almost reverent.

Maybe, just maybe, in shaping her from this earth, he’d find the piece of himself he lost the moment she appeared.

Maybe in her silhouette, he’d find his sanity again.

Or lose what little was left.

His hands stopped—frozen mid-motion, trembling above the clay as if even his fingers feared giving her form.

He closed his eyes.

And there she was again.

The soft chime of anklets. The sway of her hips like a feather caught in a forbidden breeze. Veiled, faceless—yet she looked straight into his soul.

A single drop of sweat trailed down his temple as his jaw clenched, teeth grinding in frustration... or fascination. He couldn’t tell anymore.

With a sharp inhale, his fingers moved again. No longer hesitant but desperate.

He started from her waist. God, that waist.

Every curve, every hollow, burned into his memory like scripture. His palms flattened the clay, tracing the shape as if touching her through it. The way she moved—so sinfully fluid—it echoed now in each motion of his hands.

He sculpted the rise of her hip, the smooth dip of her navel, his breath quickening with each detail. This isn't just just art—it is a sin he would gladly commit again and again. A silent scream carved into clay.

His breath hitched as he imagined her face— veil cascading over her lips, hiding what he longed to see the most.

His eyes remained shut, lashes trembling as if each flicker of memory burned too hot behind them. The room was silent, save for his ragged breathing and the rhythmic press of his fingers into the soft clay.

He sculpted her veil—slow, deliberate strokes over where her mouth would be, the fabric molded delicately, seductively. Only her eyes visible… just like that night. That cursed yet blessed night.

Eyes that had devoured him without a single word.

His chest rose and fell in shallow pulls. There was something wickedly intimate about crafting the face he’d never seen. The mystery twisted tighter in his gut. He shaped the curve of her cheeks beneath the veil, the slight tilt of her head as if she were still teasing him with every sway of her hips.

He wasn't just building her image now.

He was recreating the obsession.

With trembling hands, he carved the eyes—deep, mysterious, laced with fire. And as the last detail settled into place, his jaw flexed.

A sculptor sculpting madness.

And yet… he couldn’t stop. Not now. Not when this was the only way to touch what haunted him.

his hands stilled with one final stroke of his fingers.

His eyes opened slowly.

And there she was.

Not in memory.

Not in dream.

But standing before him—solid, still, carved by his own trembling hands.

The sculpture looked almost too real, as if it breathed.

The delicate veil hugged her face just the way he remembered, only her eyes are exposed… and they stared back at him with a maddening tease.

Her waist—sculpted to the exact sway that haunted his nights—curved like temptation molded in clay. Each detail is so  precise, it was as if giving life to a nonexistent creature from dust.

He stepped back, his chest rising and falling as though he had just walked out of a storm. His gaze refused to leave her.

His voice came out low, a rasp on the edge of obsession.

"Who are you?"

He asked as if the sculpture could hear.

But the room thick with silence gave no answer and the sculpture stood unmoving, stoned and far too alive.

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Niamph stood quietly, her fingers curled around the cold iron railing of the balcony. The Moscow skyline stretched endlessly before her—grand, glittering, foreign.

She exhaled slowly, her breath misting in the chill air. In her warm, familiar world, everything was simpler—softer. But here, amidst the gold-tinted glamour and concrete power, she felt like a misplaced brushstroke on an expensive canvas.

This city was sharp and cold, dressed in ambition and secrets. And in this moment, standing above its restless heart, she felt terribly small.

"What am I doing here?" the thought flickered through her mind like a whisper.

Her phone rang, and Niamph frowned with tension as she saw the name flashing across the screen—Cara.

Why is she calling now?

Still, she answered.

"Get ready. We are going to spend the evening outside."

Cara’s voice rang through the line, casual and commanding. Niamph could hear soft clicking noises in the background—makeup brushes, compacts snapping shut. She was clearly getting ready herself.

Niamph inhaled slowly, trying to stay calm.

"I’m not going. You can go."

There was a beat of silence. The clinking stopped.

"Are you still holding on to the fact that I left you there?" Cara sighed dramatically. "Okay… fine. I’m sorry. Now happy? Now get ready. In this way you can also see the glittering life of Moscow."

Niamph didn’t respond. She simply ended the call, letting the phone fall to her lap. Her heart beat a little faster—half with irritation, half with something else. The walls of the room felt cold, unfamiliar. Her cats weren’t here to curl beside her. And honestly… she was getting bored.

Maybe she did need to step out to freshen up her mind.

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Niamph stepped into the lobby, her eyes landing on Cara lounging on the plush couch, phone in hand. Cara was dressed to demand attention—her bodycon dress clung to her like a second skin, every curve on display. The neckline dipped low, revealing more than just confidence.

Cara looked up and scoffed at the sight of Niamph. Her eyes swept over the modest, simple dress Niamph wore—something soft, unassuming, and completely opposite of her own.

"You wore that?" Cara asked, one brow arched in exaggerated disbelief.

Niamph glanced down at herself. “Yes,” she said simply.

Cara scoffed again, her tone laced with mockery. “You look like a grandma.”

Niamph didn’t respond. It wasn’t the first time Cara had made digs at her appearance—and it likely wouldn’t be the last.

“Anyways,” Cara said, pushing herself off the couch. “Let’s go.”

They walked side by side out of the hotel, the air buzzing with distant city noise and the occasional passing car.

“You could’ve done something to hide those freckles,” Cara commented, tossing a glance at Niamph’s bare face.

Niamph turned her head slightly, her voice soft but steady. “I don’t mind them.”

Cara shrugged, disinterested. “Suit yourself.”

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Niamph stepped into the high-society club in Moscow, her eyes darting around the glittering room, clearly unsettled. She turned to Cara, her voice low.

“Cara, why are we here?”

Cara arched a brow, her expression unreadable. “What do you mean?”

Niamph gestured subtly at the extravagant surroundings. “We could’ve gone somewhere else. This place… it doesn’t feel right.”

Cara sighed, irritation creeping into her tone. “Do you want me to take you to a museum now? This is a club. Look around—these people are billionaires. You should be grateful I brought you here.”

With that, she turned and walked away, quickly vanishing into the crowded dance floor, leaving Niamph standing alone.