Cold. The first thing you notice is that his house is cold. The marble floors click as the three of you enter in a line, one leading you, the other standing behind as if to catch you if you run. You keep your chin up and your arms by your sides, ignoring how badly you want to curl into yourself, and not just because of the cold. You're led into a main sitting room, but they dont stop there, approaching a small side door that opens to a staircase. They stop then, one taking each side of the doorway, beckoning you through the door.
"He'll want to meet you alone." You're not sure which one said it, too focused on the narrow spiral stairs in front of you. Harder to run down. Harder to escape. You step through the door and they move to close it behind you. You roll back your shoulders, preparing for the worst as you start your ascent. You were used to being uncomfortable, feeling alone in a hostile space. You were used to being treated less than human and you had come to terms with your place in the world. But this was different. This was never supposed to be the way your life went. But as you reach the top of the stairs and stare at the ornate doors, taunting you, you realize that this is the last moment where you are still your own person. When you walk through those doors, you'll be his.
You reach up to knock, stomach turning, but pause just before your knuckles meet the wood. You sigh, breathing in one last breath on the other side, and hold it as your hand descends. Three clear knocks ring out, echoing against the small stairwell. At first, nothing happens, no movement is heard on the other side and for a moment you think there might be no one in there. Then, the doors click mechanically, falling slightly ajar as you hear from withing, "come in."
Your shaking hands reach up and push on the door, slowly stepping into the room. Your eyes stick to the floor as you enter, the ground is dark and polished, made of some sort of stone. You glance around and the walls are charcoal with minimal decorations. There are lights, but they're dim and don't reveal much. The center of the room has a desk facing the outer wall. The curtains are pulled closed barely letting in light. There's a man sitting at the desk, and as you enter he pushes back, standing and turning to face you. He was tall, much taller than you, and as he gets closer you realize just how small you feel next to him. He's wearing black boots with silver eyelets, the tops hidden by his black pants. They have green stitching running up and around the leg, a detail that would be missed by anyone lacking a keen eye. He has a simple sweater, black yarn woven with just enough tension to make fabric, but not enough to conceal the small flashes of skin that reveal themselves when he moves. His dark hair was styled, but obscured by the mask sitting on his face. It was white and circular, depicting a smile, but it makes you feel anything but comfort.
