The morning air in the Obsidian Mansion felt like frozen silk. I sat on the edge of the bed, my skin still smelling faintly of the linseed oil and turpentine from the night before, despite three scrubbing showers. The red paint was gone from my skin, but the memory of Adrian’s handprints—etched in crimson across my hips—felt like a permanent brand.
I looked at the nightstand. The monitor was there, humming its low, electronic lullaby. **68 bpm.**
I had spent the last three days learning how to lie to the machine. I practiced slow, shallow breathing. I meditated on the image of a blank, white void. I taught my body to remain cold even when my mind was screaming. If Adrian wanted to track my heart, I would give him the rhythm of a statue.
But today, something was different. The monitor fl
