Thank you so much for your kind words - they truly keep me going! This chapter turned out completely different from my initial draft. While browsing a bookstore overflowing with old books, maps, and magazines, a particular book caught my eye. Safe to say, it will play a rather fitting role in this story. Any guesses which one? I'll give you a hint; it's not Kohlhaas.

This chapter is unedited.

Enjoy~

Hanna jolted awake, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps, her mind still entangled in the fraying edges of her nightmare. Sweat clung to her skin, her nightgown damp and sticky against her back. She blinked, disoriented, the shadowy room around her gradually coming into focus. The oppressive weight of failure, inadequacy, and the nagging sense of being an imposter still clung to her thoughts, as if the dream had followed her from sleep into waking. She pressed her hands against her chest, trying to slow the rapid pounding of her heart.

It was always the same. The scenarios changed, the faces of her colleagues and clients blurred, but the feeling never did. She was always standing before a room full of people, her hands trembling as she fumbled through important documents, while presenting. Her voice would fail her, the words slipping through her mind like water through cupped hands, leaving her mute and helpless under their judgmental stares. Someone would stand up, point out a glaring mistake, a forgotten task, a critical detail she had somehow overlooked, a KPI she failed to meet.

"Thanks to your mistake we are held back."

"Your incompetence is costing us thousands!"

"You're not suited for this position."

"We trusted you with this project."

"You're supposed to be the expert, aren't you?"

"Maybe you're not as capable as you think."

"Imposter"

"Imposter!"

"…Imposter!"

The voices in her dream had grown louder, more insistent, a chorus of condemnation that threatened to drown her. Even now, awake and out of that nightmare, she could still hear the phantom accusations ringing in her ears. Imposter. Fraud. Failure. The words dug into her mind, reopening wounds that never fully healed.

Keep it together, Hanna. She forced herself to sit up in bed, though every movement felt heavy. Her breath was still uneven, her chest tight, as though her lungs were too small to take in enough air. It wasn't new, this feeling - this pressure in her chest, this fear of crumbling under the weight of expectations she had built for herself.

You've survived this before. You can push through, she told herself. You always do.

But she was exhausted. And somewhere deep down, she wasn't sure if pushing through was enough anymore.

Her body rebelled, and she doubled over, dry heaving on the floor as her stomach twisted painfully. Nothing came up, but the convulsions wracked her frame, leaving her drained. Hollow. Fragile, like she might shatter at any moment. A tear stung her eyes, but she blinked it away. She wasn't supposed to break down. Not now. Not here.

Just breathe, she repeated, but it was no use. The panic was creeping up, relentless, and the tightness in her chest wouldn't go away.

She swung her legs out of bed, and without fully processing it, found herself moving. She had to. Staying still only made the thoughts louder. The underground home Erik had carved out was cold and unwelcoming, but somehow it felt like a sanctuary - a place where no one could witness her unraveling. She wandered into the drawing room, the faint light of the dying fire in the fireplace casting soft, flickering shadows on the walls. She sank into the chaise longue, curling up with her knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around herself.

The pressure on her stomach helped, if only slightly, but the tightness in her chest remained. She rocked back and forth, trying to ground herself, trying to ride out the waves of panic that threatened to overwhelm her. Her thoughts buzzed, too loud, too insistent.

I don't belong here. I never belonged here.

But there was still the other guilt trying to rival. The guilt as if she needed to prove something - even to Erik, who had taken her in.

Why do I feel like this? I should be fine.

But she wasn't. The pressure, the guilt, the feeling of being an imposter - it was all too much.

Her breathing came in shallow gasps that did little to calm her racing heart. She clenched her eyes shut, willing herself to find something, anything, to latch onto. She needed to focus, to center herself. Her mind, still foggy with panic, grasped for something familiar, something comforting.

Without thinking, she began to hum softly to herself. The lullaby she had once sung to Erik when he was breaking down floated from her lips, the familiar notes giving her something to hold onto. Her voice wavered at first, shaky and uncertain, but she forced herself to continue.

The music was something she could control, something that wasn't slipping away from her. She hummed louder, the notes clearer, and with each breath, she tried to push the panic down, back into the recesses of her mind where it belonged. Slowly, so very slowly.

The panic didn't disappear entirely, it never did, but it ebbed, the tightness in her chest loosening slightly. She focused on her breathing, on the rise and fall of her chest, timing her inhales and exhales with the melody. Slowly, she felt the worst of the panic recede, leaving her exhausted and hollow, like a vessel that had been emptied and left out to dry.

She leaned back against the chaise longue, her body still trembling slightly but no longer on the verge of collapse.

The room around her seemed distant, her mind still fogged with the remnants of the episode. She was so tired. Her limbs felt heavy, her eyes gritty with fatigue. She didn't remember falling asleep, but at some point, her body gave in to the exhaustion, and she drifted off into a fitful sleep.

When she woke she found herself alone still. Relief flickered briefly when she realized that; the thought of Erik seeing her like this; raw, shaken, and unguarded, made her stomach twist with unease.

She couldn't bear to give him any reason to doubt her resolve to stay, especially now, when she had promised so much. But her body betrayed her. Her limbs felt like lead, her chest hollow, and her thoughts buzzed faintly, not sharp but persistent, like whispers she couldn't ignore.

Why now? she wondered, rubbing her temples in a futile attempt to clear her mind. She had thought she was fine. Weeks, no, months, had passed since she last felt this crushing wave. But was she really fine?

Looking back, the signs had been there all along. There had been the small, fleeting moments: the trembling hands when she thought too long about her future, the tightness in her chest whenever the reality of her situation crept in. She had ignored them, brushing them aside, convincing herself she didn't have the time or luxury to dwell on them.

This wasn't new. She had been here before. Her mind flashed back to the first panic attack, years ago, at the start of her career, freshly graduated and just thankful that she landed a job as soon as she finished university.

She could remember it vividly how the pressure to succeed had felt like a weight on her chest. Deadlines loomed over her, expectations stacked impossibly high, and the relentless need to prove herself gnawed at her day and night. She had pushed herself harder and harder until one day, her body gave up. Her chest had tightened, her breathing became shallow, and her vision blurred as she sat frozen in the bathroom at home, unable to move.

It had been Marie who found her. Hanna could still hear her friend's steady, calm voice cutting through the chaos: "Focus on your breath. Try to follow me. Breathe in. Hold it. And out. Again. Yes - just like that. You're safe, love. You'll get through this. We will get through this together." Marie had crouched next to her, hands firm on Hanna's shoulders, guiding her back to the present moment. That day had been a turning point, but it hadn't come without warnings.

Marie had always warned her. Hanna let out a bitter laugh at the memory. Marie, with her sharp insight, had never missed an opportunity to call her out. "You work yourself into the ground, sweetheart," Marie had said more times than she could count.

"It's not sustainable. You're so focused on proving yourself that you can't see what it's doing to you." At the time, Hanna had waved her off, insisting she had everything under control.

But Marie hadn't let it go. She had a way of teasing Hanna without letting the seriousness of her concern slip. "You're going to implode one day," Marie had warned.

Hanna had huffed a laugh. "I know I have been binge eating lately-" she had managed in between shallow gasps, "-but I don't believe that amount will make me implode. Yet."

"Har har." Marie had rolled her eyes. "Can you at least stay serious in this situation? Where is your so-called professionalism now, Miss Manager?"

That had earned her another dry heave, cursing under her breath as she patted Hanna's back. "Shit, sorry. But I mean…-" , another heave and lots of coughing, "-you can't keep just juggling everything without dropping something eventually. And when you do, it'll hit you like an effing freight train. Worse than this."

Hanna had scoffed then, brushing aside Marie's nagging as melodramatic, but deep down, she had known her friend was right.

Even when Marie playfully poked fun at her for spending more time perfecting work emails than relaxing over coffee, Hanna had felt the truth sting.

And she had tried, tried so hard not to let it happen again. After that first panic attack, she had done everything in her power to regain control, to avoid falling apart. She had kept her emotions in check, pushed through every challenge, and convinced herself she was fine. For months, she had succeeded.

Until now.

Her chest tightened as she thought about how easily it had all unraveled. The tension had been building, piece by piece, like bricks stacked on top of one another.

The work.

The grind of perfecting every project before she'd ended up here.

Erik.

The constant effort of being strong for someone so fragile and uncertain, while silencing her own fears.

This place.

The overwhelming reality of being trapped in a world that wasn't hers, with no escape, no control.

Marie's voice echoed faintly in her mind - one of her many ramblings about stress. "You know, stress is cumulative. It sneaks up on you. You might not feel it today or tomorrow, but it's there, building. And when it catches up, it doesn't ask for permission."

And now, sitting here, it was all too clear. Her body and mind had finally reached their breaking point.

Unwillingly, her thoughts drifted to the job she had left behind. The one she hadn't even had the chance to say goodbye to. What's happening now? she wondered. Did her colleagues and clients resent her for disappearing so suddenly? She had poured herself into that job, perfecting every project, managing every detail, only to abandon it all. Now, sitting here in this strange and foreign place, it felt like everything she had worked so hard for was unraveling.

Her eyes fell on the libretto resting on the nearby table.

That damned music.

She had picked it up so many times over the past days, thumbing through its pages as if it held some kind of solace. Instead, it only seemed mocked her. A reminder of the life she had left behind, the life that now seemed impossibly far away. And of the person she once was - a person she wasn't sure she could ever find again.

Hanna turned another page of Michael Kohlhaas, but the words blurred slightly before her eyes, refusing to take form in her mind. She blinked, trying to focus, but the story seemed heavier than usual tonight, pressing on her in a way that made her restless. The fire crackled behind her, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls, and for a moment, she let her gaze drift to the uneven ceiling above.

She hadn't thought much about what drew her to this particular book when she first picked it up. Perhaps it had been the title, that sounded somewhat familiar, or perhaps it was simply the need to do something, anything, that had made her reach for it. And it was written in German … which helped in her decision. Either way, she hadn't expected it to affect her the way it did.

The book affected her on a profound level, but she couldn't quite grasp why it lingered in her mind, shaping her emotions and thoughts. It felt familiar, calling out to her on a subconscious level. Her fingers tightening around the edges of the book.

Kohlhaas was a man caught in a setting that seemed intent on breaking him, a world where every step forward seemed to push him further into chaos. He acted with conviction, yes, but there was something else there, something unsettling. His actions didn't feel entirely like choices. They felt… inevitable, driven by forces beyond him. As if he was less a man in control of his fate and more a man reacting to a fate he couldn't escape.

Grea. Now she was experiencing an existential crisis.

Hanna shifted, pulling her knees up to her chest, head resting on her knees as she lazily looked into the direction Erik would most likely be: In his room locked away from her.

In those first days after their heart to heart talk, Erik seemed too crushed beneath the weight of his own existence to reach out to her in any meaningful way. His gestures, if they could be called such, were fragmentary - an anguished glance stolen across the room, a muttered demand that she leave, or, more often, a biting insult directed at himself as though he were punishing himself for even allowing her presence.

He was weary, volatile, and hollow, retreating to the solace of his piano or violin, where he wrung out painful melodies that seemed to bleed his despair into the air around them.

And yet Hanna stayed. It wasn't only compassion that bound her to him, though compassion was surely there - but something deeper, more conflicted.

Erik's anguish mirrored her own, though his was louder, more vivid, less controlled. His sharp, self-loathing outbursts and the haunting melodies he conjured from his piano were reflections of the weight she carried in silence - the unrelenting whispers in her mind that told her she wasn't enough, that she would never be enough.

Erik was in some ways the embodiment of all the fears she fought to suppress. And yet, his brokenness called to her.

She understood his despair - not in the way one understands another's story, but in the way two fractured pieces instinctively recognize how they might fit together. His pain gave voice to her own, and by caring for him, by staying, she found a purpose that felt almost redemptive. It was as though easing his suffering might somehow atone for her own perceived inadequacies.

But this need to help, this compulsion to prove herself, came with its own sharp edge. She was not blind to the selfishness in her actions, and the knowledge of it made her ache with shame. Erik was, after all, still a stranger she knew next to nothing about - a man whose past was a dark, painful and tangled thing, whose motives she couldn't fully dare to grasp.

What right did she have to insert herself into his world, to use his pain as a balm for her own wounds? Was her care for him truly selfless, or was she clinging to him because it made her feel needed? Valued? Important?

She wrestled with these questions in the quiet moments, when Erik was locked away in his room, and she was left alone with her thoughts. It was in those hours that the weight of her decision pressed on her most heavily. She thought of the life she'd left behind, of the work that had drained her, the unending demands that had eroded her sense of self.

She thought of the panic that had clawed at her chest in the days before she found herself here, the numbness and listlessness, the irritation…and the strange, fleeting peace she felt now in the act of simply staying. Caring for Erik gave her days structure and meaning, but was that enough of a reason to stay?

Her dreams offered no clarity. They were fractured things, filled with half-formed fears and even echoes of Erik's voice - sometimes pleading, sometimes scornful, sometimes demanding … and always heavy with the weight of something unspoken. She woke from them feeling hollow, her chest tight with the remnants of panic.

She stayed because leaving felt unbearable. Not because she pitied him, though pity was there. Not because she thought she could save him, though the hope lingered. She stayed because in his brokenness, she saw a chance to confront her own.

Erik, with all his despair and rage and brilliance, was a puzzle she didn't know how to solve, but one she couldn't walk away from. She wanted to prove to him, and perhaps to herself, that he could be cared for, that someone could stay- not for what he offered, but for who he was.

If she could ease Erik's suffering, even just a little, it might justify her presence. It might silence the doubts gnawing at her mind, the doubts that whispered she was as lost and broken as he.

Her efforts to connect with him were quiet and deliberate. She left light meals for him accompanied by short notes. "I noticed you favoring the way the chicken was prepared yesterday. I have added a little more today, should it suit your taste once again," one read.

"I'll be nearby if you need anything."

"The design on your tailcoat is stunning. The way the patterns flow together is mesmerizing."

"That shade of blue you're wearing compliments you well."

These notes, though mundane in content, were were her way of reaching across the chasm between them, of saying, without demanding too much, that she saw him - not as the monstrous figure he so often claimed to be, but as a man worthy of care. As a person.

At first, Erik gave little sign that he even noticed these gestures. He ate sparingly, almost reluctantly, and left the notes where they were. But after a few days, she began to notice small changes. He lingered over her notes, staring at them as though trying to decipher meaning behind them that was long forgotten.

One day, she caught him slipping one into the pocket of his coat, where it rested for days, pulled out occasionally to be read again. She began to suspect that her words, however small, had reached some part of him he had thought long dead, or even …existed.

The note about his tailcoat made him self-conscious in a way that was almost pleasant; she found himself wearing it more often, as though her words had given him permission to feel adequate.

Hanna, in turn, found a strange solace in the routine of her care for him. The act of preparing meals, of writing notes, gave her days a structure they had otherwise somewhat lacked.

And occupying herself with these self given tasks took her mind off the lingering thoughts after a nightmare, which, since she discovered the libretto of die Fledermaus, regularly occurred. Well, most of the time it helped. Sometimes she did catch herself laying on the chaise longue staring into nothingness, as if she was set on auto pilot.

And sometimes, if the numbness didn't get to her, she was pacing her bedroom, nibbling on her lower lip of picking her nails. In moments like these she ached to have her phone and doom scroll. Anything, just anything to occupy her mind with. But that damn phone was more than dead and six feet underground, it probably was somewhere in the catacombs, or worse, stored away in one of Erik's secret drawers where he most likely held her other belongings prisoners of his own curiosity too. She huffed a breath.

So, she began experimenting with the food she made for him, not out of mere culinary curiosity but out of a desire to understand him better. She couldn't fathom what food he would enjoy with the lack of nose. Could he even taste certain flavors at all?

She noticed that he seemed to prefer foods with a crisp texture or a hint of spice, and she adjusted her cooking accordingly. Fried chicken with a somewhat hot dipping sauce became a regular offering, and she took a quiet pleasure in seeing him finish these meals more often than not. She only had to be careful that she didn't end up raising a chicken-nugget-and-fries-only kid.

That thought, as ridiculously as it was, made her grin like a fool.

Though, one might add that her experiments weren't without failure. Especially in the beginnings. He would reject the dishes, sometimes not even sparing them a glance. She wasn't always sure it was either the dish itself or the gesture, for Erik once left a note, which said: "And yet I wonder what it is you hope to gain by this tired pursuit."

Much to his annoyance, she did continue this pursuit. But it paid off, didn't it?

And when Erik rejected a dish, she forced herself to eat it, unwilling to let it go to waste. The act of consuming these leftovers had an unintended side effect: she began to regain some of the weight she had lost in the chaos of her own anxiety and sickness.

But more importantly, it gave her a sense of purpose. For the first time in weeks - perhaps months - she felt that she was doing something meaningful, something tangible. She wasn't just existing; she was contributing, however modestly, to someone else's wellbeing.

But, admittedly, beneath this surface satisfaction, Hanna carried a quieter, more desperate hope. She wanted Erik to see her - not just as the girl who stayed, but as someone who might be worthy of staying for. She wanted to be needed because being needed made her feel less adrift.

And yet, she didn't want him to shower her with the grand, sweeping gestures he had once used to win affection; those gifts had felt hollow, as though they were meant to buy her rather than understand her.

What she wanted was far simpler.

She wanted him to sit with her, talk with her, share quiet moments where neither had to pretend to be more than they were, two fractured people trying to make sense of their place in the world.

Her fingers traced the edges of the book again, a nervous habit she hadn't noticed before, her thoughts flickering back to Kohlhaas. What she wants, what she really wants...? This was absurd. Did she really want to stay here forever? Did she actually choose to stay, or was she just reacting to everything around her? Because it was the most comfortable option for her? The most secure? Did she really try to suppress the fact that she crawled back to Erik back then? The realization of her own self deception made her uneasy.

She groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose, trying her very best not to overthink everything. It felt safer to keep moving, to keep doing something routinely, rather than stop and confront the swirling confusion in her mind.

Routine had become her refuge. Tending to Erik, dealing with nightmares and panic attacks, even missing her family, it had all become a pattern she followed to stay grounded. But, admittedly, deep down inside she was tired of it.

I am I and my circumstances, she thought, the phrase lingering in her mind. Where had she heard that before? She couldn't put a finger on it, probably in one of Marie's philosophical ramblings. It didn't matter. But… was it true? Was she truly just the sum of everything that had happened to her? A person defined by the expectations, fears, and struggles that had shaped her?

She didn't want to believe that. She wanted to believe she had a choice, that her actions could mean something beyond mere reaction. But it was difficult to hold onto that belief when every day felt the same, when her routines felt more like survival than living.

She didn't feel strong or purposeful. She felt unfinished, like a piece of something that hadn't yet taken shape.

Kohlhaas had acted because he believed he had no other choice. But hadn't he still chosen, even when the world left him with so few options? Kohlhaas could have chosen to accept the injustice and move on with his life. He might have focused on rebuilding what he lost and cherishing what remained: his family, his wealth, and his reputation. This choice would have spared him and others the suffering that followed.

And she? What did act upon her circumstances? Was it out of bravery, pity, compassion, selfishness…or inevitability?

Hanna exhaled slowly, resting her head on her knees. She didn't have the answers. Maybe she didn't need them. Maybe it didn't matter whether staying was a choice or a reaction. What mattered was that she kept going.

Helping Erik, being here - it didn't erase her doubts, but it gave her something to hold onto. And for now, that was enough.

Her fingers traced the edges of the book one last time, grounding her as the fire crackled softly in the background. Tomorrow, she would continue. She would try again. Not because it was easy, or because it made sense, but because she was still here.

For now, that was all she needed to know.

From the corner of her eyes she saw movement; Erik stalked towards her, lingering in the door frame for a moment before approaching her silently. "I wanted to convey my thanks for the meal."

These fleeting encounters with Erik became a curious pattern over the next few days. He would thank her for the meals, occasionally tending the fire while making an offhand remark, such as, "You find yourself not wholly discomfited by your surroundings?"

The house had grown colder, and she surmised the seasons outside were shifting toward winter. That realization unsettled her, it had been ages since she had gotten a sniff of fresh air.

The first time he asked that, she had replied warmly, "I'm quite grateful for your effort to ensure my comfort."

He had huffed in response, and she could almost picture a sardonic smile beneath the veil of his mask. "Effort," he murmured. "But is it ever enough?" His snicker that followed was hollow, tinged with something almost whimsical.

After that, whenever he repeated the question, she would simply respond with, "Not at all." It seemed to amuse him, or at least to silence whatever melancholy had sparked the question in the first place.

Some days, when Erik would approach Hanna to tend the fire, he would quietly settle into a nearby chair afterwards, staring blankly ahead before cautiously reaching for a random book. He moved with such care, making as little noise as possible, as though afraid to disturb her. She often fought the urge to laugh at his almost comical attempts to stay unnoticed, if only she didn't know the fragility behind them, how deeply he feared her reactions, her leaving.

Oh, how the tables had turned! That perfidious realization struck her often; her presence mattered to him. He needed her.

Other times, he would offer help when he caught her struggling with a French book, trying his best to stay patient with her lack of understanding at times.

He visited her more frequently now, trying his best not to let sarcastic remarks escape his lips when he returned from errands, as if unsure whether his presence was truly welcome. And she, in turn, didn't push him. She learned that the less she questioned and the more she appreciated his mere company, the more he drew near.

Sometimes, though, when he sensed her struggling with her own emotions, murmuring to herself or pacing restlessly, he would retreat, locking himself in his room, the silence on the other side of the door heavy and oppressive. No melodies emerged, no sounds of life, just absence.

Erik's growth was anything but linear. It was a constant ebb and flow, a fragile dance of progress and retreat.

Neither of them found it easy. They both grappled with their own existence while clinging to the thin thread that tied them together. Erik worked tirelessly to maintain control over himself, especially in moments of excitement. He stifled his extremes, reducing his emotions to bitter ramblings that Hanna quietly endured. As long as he didn't destroy things in a fit of rage and later lament their loss, she could bear it. Yet, sometimes his frustration overwhelmed him, leaving him weeping behind closed doors - ugly, choking sobs that he tried desperately to hide from her. He didn't want her to see that part of him and she didn't press her presence on him during those times.

Music was ever present, like a loyal but merciless companion. Some pieces lulled Hanna into a trance-like peace, while others quickened her pulse, stirring memories of nightmares that haunted her restless nights. On occasion, she cursed the music for evoking emotions that left her raw, emotions that reminded her of what she wasn't, what she had left behind in the past years.

Oh, how she missed her old self! But was it really the music itself that upset her? Or was it the mirror it held up to her soul?

Then there were days when Erik emerged from his solitude with surprising confidence. Those moments were rare, but precious. He seated himself next to her, his legs shaking giddily, as he nervously looked at her, clinging to a deck of cards in his hands. "May I indulge you in another form of light entertainment?"

Card playing, or more precisely, showing off his tricks, had become a welcome addition in their routine, which Erik offered eagerly. Aside from music, it was one of the few things he took pride in displaying. She could see how he blossomed under the attention, how confidence unfurled in him like a slow, cautious bloom.

Today, when they played cards while having tea, she grew a little bolder.

Hanna watched Erik's hands with fascination, as there was something oddly compelling about the way his fingers moved - thin, pale, deft. The cards obeyed him, each flick of his wrist transforming the simple game into something closer to performance, a private spectacle with no audience but her.

It was the shift in him from his weary self, that most unsettled her, or rather, intrigued her. There was an ease in his posture now, a quiet self-assurance that radiated outward, as though, for these card tricks, he had become someone entirely different. Gone was the snide, defensive recluse she had grown accustomed to; in his place was a man strangely at ease, strangely… compelling.

She tried to steady her breathing, but there was no ignoring the light flutter that stirred in her stomach, unbidden and inexplicable. It was ridiculous, she told herself. Nerves, nothing more. Erik was unpredictable at best, volatile at worst.

"Pick a card," he said softly. He spread the deck before her, the cards fanning out in an arc, and for a moment, she hesitated, her fingers lingering just above the deck. She met his eyes, those eyes that gleamed like melted gold behind a black mask - one of his few masks that showed more of his features, revealing his thin, pale lips - quickly looked away, feeling absurdly self conscious.

She chose a card at random, holding it close to her chest. Erik gave no indication of interest in what she had drawn. Instead, he gathered the deck once more, his long fingers moving in a series of fluid, intricate motions too quick for her eyes to follow.

They had played this game often. Yes, Erik won most of the times, but she'd also succeeded a couple of times. Perhaps that's what gotten into her head, even tho she knew better than to underestimate Erik by now. Erik takes most things, especially competition, seriously.

An idea took shape in her mind.

"I propose a wager," she said suddenly. "If I win, I get a wish."

Erik had spent his life believing that people deceive and betray him. A wager framed as lighthearted fun could help him experience something without the weight of manipulation or cruelty. If he learns that not every challenge is a trap, he may start lowering his guard.

Erik paused, his hands stilling mid-shuffle. He regarded her with that peculiar, measuring gaze of his. Calculating and taking slightly aback. "A wish?" His eyes narrowed slightly. "And if you lose?" he asked.

Hanna hesitated, the fluttering in her chest intensifying under the weight of his gaze. "If I lose you can name your price."

Erik's thin lips curved into the faintest semblance of a smile, not quite amused, but deeply intrigued. "Very well."

"Try to lose me amidst the shuffle," Erik said, motioning to see the card she still had clutched. She turned the card, the Seven of Spades, and put it back into the deck of cards.

Hanna raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "Lose you?"

He gathered the cards together and extended the deck toward her, his long fingers framing it. "Shuffle to your heart's content," he said. "Cut the cards, scatter them, even invert their order if you feel so inclined. Do your utmost to render the card irretrievable. When you are satisfied, you may spread them onto the table." He cocked his head, his lips twitched. "And let me choose."

Hanna hesitated, casting him a skeptical glance. There was something almost maddening about his poise, the way he seemed so … certain of the outcome before the game had even begun. But she said nothing, taking the deck and setting to work.

She began shuffling, cut the deck several times, then shuffled again, reversing a few cards for good measure, determined to obscure her chosen card beyond all possibility of discovery.

Erik watched her the entire time, silent and still. Her, not the cards. There was wariness in his gaze, as though her efforts were merely a diversion, a prelude to an inevitable conclusion. She gulped. It was as she assumed: Erik was testing her, curious if she would take the wager as chance to turn her back on him. Betraying him, leaving him alone. It was clear as day to her, that he intentionally wanted to lose, not even pretending to be engaged in the game, instead he tried to read her nervous state - tried to find any hint of betrayal in her expression. Either that or he was maniacally blessed with tracking cards.

When she finally spread the deck in front of him in an arc, her hands were steady, but her pulse had quickened. "Let us see," he murmured, "if fortune favors my endeavors tonight."

His left hand hovered over the spread of cards. It was impossible for him to retrieve the exact card she had chosen. The odds, after all, were not in his favor. Even in the past, when Erik had dazzled her with his magic tricks, he hadn't always guessed correctly. He was flawed, human, fallible.

His index finger hovered momentarily over a card before moving onward, the motion almost teasing. Then his gaze lifted, locking with hers, and she froze. How sharply he observed her, as his fingers brushed the edge of a card and turned it over.

The Queen of Hearts.

"Ah," Erik murmured, his tone laced with a mockery so subtle it bordered on playfulness, "it seems fortune has turned her back on poor Erik this time." His eyes, however, remained fixed on her, unblinking, as though he were studying her reaction more intently than the card itself.

"Now," he said, his voice quiet but charged with curiosity, "what is it that you wish?"

There was something in the way he spoke, in the slight narrowing of his eyes, that made the fine hairs on her arms rise. Of course, he would lose intentionally. She had expected as much. But expectation did little to quell the ache in her chest - the knowledge that he still braced for betrayal, that he was watching her more than the cards. She would prove him wrong. Not every wager was a trap. Not every loss meant defeat.

She exhaled softly, shifting in her seat. "Not that I mean to sound ungrateful," she mused, "but does one ever drink anything other than tea in this household?"

A teasing smile played on her lips as she glanced up at him, expecting …what exactly? A scoff? A wry remark? But Erik simply stared at her, utterly still. She could see the faint widening of his eyes, the way his fingers curled slightly against the edge of the table.

She had startled him.

The realization was oddly delightful. It wasn't often that she caught him off guard, not when he always seemed one step ahead, orchestrating every exchange like a game of strategy. Yet now, for the briefest moment, he looked unsettled. Not displeased, not irritated, just …caught unprepared.

Without a word, still somewhat dazed, Erik rose from his seat, his movements fluid. He collected the tea service and turned on his heel.

Hanna watched him go, biting back a grin. Not quite what he expected, was it?

She leaned back, glancing down at the cards still scattered across the table, their edges glinting in the dim light. A thought stirred, swift and insistent. She flipped over the card his fingertip had grazed mere moments before choosing another.

The Seven of Spades.

Her breath hitched. So he had known. He had intentionally lost, that much was clear. But instead of choosing a card at random, he had - what? She exhaled, shaking her head. She really needed to change games if she wanted to keep things fair.

A faint rustling behind her made her turn.

Erik had returned, the tea service now gone. In its place, he carried an uncorked bottle of wine.

"Would this suffice?" he asked.

She hesitated, then let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head as he poured the liquid into two glasses with practiced ease. "You really have been holding out on me," she said lightly, taking one of the glasses.

A fleeting smile ghosted across his lips - there and gone in an instant. He raised his own glass slightly, a silent toast, before taking a sip. Hanna followed suit, the cold sweetness of the white wine lingering on her tongue. She sighed, letting the taste settle.

"Now this," she murmured, tilting the glass slightly in appreciation, "is a welcome change."