The world came back slowly, or perhaps Kirsty came back to it slowly, like a swimmer surfacing from waters deeper than she'd expected. The sounds came first, her own breathing and heartbeat and the sound of a person's movements; it was quickly followed by the sudden heavy ache in her bones. She groaned, the air harsh on her dry mouth as she breathed in. She smelled sweat and something like whiskey.

Kirsty always opened her eyes last when waking up. She stretched her arms, felt fabric at her wrists, but it fell into her grasp at the slightest tug. She opened her eyes, blinked, holding the fabric before her eyes as her sight focused; red, like the blanket pulled over her sweat-soaked body, the nightgown clinging to her wrist, and the sheets underneath. Blood red, or maybe closer to pomegranate, but none of these things were hers.

Kirsty scrambled to sit up, looking around wildly; her eyes took in unnatural pale light on black brick walls, her joints protesting from the sudden movement. They were overworked from tension – tension?

Memory seeped back, slowly and in reverse. A climax that had turned into overwhelming sensation. Buildup, then receding, again and again. She had let herself be undressed, let herself be tied up. The whiskey was on her breath – the drink. The primer, given to her by-

"You are awake." Kirsty gasped and turned her head to the voice. The Cenobite stood a few feet away, face an unreadable and unbiased calm. She pulled the blanket tighter around herself.

"How long was I…" she started, and he shook his head, his hands clasped behind his back.

"As long as you have needed. I told you before that there is no time in this place; when you return to your world it will have been as if you never left." She nodded, swallowing again, throat dry; she wanted to taste that drink again, and she told herself it was because of the flavor, and not its potency beyond. "As per our agreement." Perhaps he could read her even from this distance, because he returned to the desk. Rather than reaching for the first flask, the one with liquid fire that had drenched her nerves in such an overwhelming need, the lead Cenobite chose a vial full of liquid from a row of them and poured into the chalice, then another, then topped it with the contents of a stout white bottle. It frothed, but did not overflow.

"So… that's it?" She could not keep the surprise from her voice; it felt like a trap, almost, that he would make getting out so easy. She watched him carry the chalice to her bedside, not a drop spilling. He set it on the small table beside her. "I'm going home, just like that?" He cupped her face with one hand, tilted her chin up, and she was so tired that she let him – at least, that was what she would tell herself later.

"I would spend eternity here, Kirsty, teaching you the intricacies of your own flesh. Should you let me I would bring you to realms of pleasure and pain that would make what I have already given you seem a sigh in the face of storms. I would give you the most exquisite of agonies." She thought of the chains, of what was done to his own body. How could he make it sound so tempting? She stared into the void of his eyes, met with no shine, no sign of what lay past them. His thumb slid over her chin, slow, nearly comforting. The void stirred. "But that was not what you agreed to."

He pulled back, and Kirsty leaned back on the bed, still tired, still heavy. The Cenobite watched her as she pulled the blanket tighter around herself, and if she had seen any softness in him the moments before, it was gone now. She took a breath, ordering her thoughts in line. She started with the most pressing question, the one she often wished she had asked many people at many different times.

"What happens now?"

"That is your decision." It was strange, how willing he seemed to give her power in this. It seemed so different from his persistence, his near-obsession with claiming her soul. Did he really go through all of this just to let her make the decisions? Was that what he'd meant to do?

"What if I want to go home?"

"Then you will be sent back to your world, in your home. It will be as if no time has passed since we began." Kirsty frowned, waiting for a catch, but he did not continue. She swallowed.

"…And what if I want to stay?" She saw something in his eyes, hunger, like a blaze roaring to life from faint sparks. She had seen it when he drank from the primer, but that must have been hours ago. It was doused as quickly as it was roused, and it took a moment for him to answer. Why?

"Then you stay." She could hear restraint in his voice, and beneath it something that might have been the lilt of interest, of excitement. "I will show you more, take you to realms of sensation beyond your darkest and deepest dreams." He never moved, but she could see the slightest quickening of his breath, of how he straightened his body soldier-stiff. And then it was gone, just like the fire in his eyes. "But I cannot keep you here forever – you will have to leave, unless you give yourself to us."

"The box," Kirsty breathed, and the Cenobite nodded.

"What is your choice, Kirsty?"

"I want to go home." The words were automatic, and she almost winced at them; why did she regret saying that?

"I see," he said, and he started to reach for the drink. That was to send her home, she realized; he handed it to her, and she took it, staring at the clear liquid that was the color of pomegranate and lined with tiny bubbles at its edges. She hesitated.

"There is something on your mind." She looked up at the Lead Cenobite, at those dark eyes.

"…What if I want to come back?"

A spark, but no fire; not immediately, at least. It hung there, in his expression, not quite catching for a moment the way it had the first time. In the same second it did take, she realized why it wasn't instant; he hadn't been expecting that. She'd caught him off guard.

Kirsty allowed herself the slightest bit of pride at that.

"If… you ever express interest," he said, and the flicker of pride swelled at that small moment he needed to collect himself, "the doors to this space are open and waiting. As I shall be." She nodded, fighting back a smile, and turned to the cup again.

"Good to know." It smelled floral; heady, but not too much so, and she was quite thirsty. "We'll just have to see. Until then…" She took the cup to her lips and drank slowly. It was frothy and light; she finished it at once.

"Until our next meeting, Kirsty." Her eyelids grew heavy; she couldn't focus. The cup fell from her hands, and the sound of it hitting the stone floor was the last thing she heard. The world melted into a dreary blackness.


Kirsty blinked; darkness. She squinted, and the faintest light blanketed certain things, forming outlines that grew into familiar shapes around her. A dresser, the jewelry box on top, the mirror, the blanket on top of her.

She sat up. She was in her room. In her room and dressed – the nightgown felt clean, dry aside from a sweaty spot on her back. There was no sound; there were no Cenobites.

Kirsty let herself fall back onto the bed; she sighed, staring up at the ceiling. She could taste something like flowers and warm vanilla at the back of her throat. The world was silent but for her own heartbeat. It was the sound she let lull her back to sleep, syncing with the faint ticking of a golden box on her bedside table.