The morning brought with it a clinical coldness that the Obsidian Mansion’s fireplace could not touch. I sat on the edge of the velvet chair, my left arm feeling heavy and alien. The industrial steel cuff Adrian had snapped onto my wrist the night before caught the light of the rising sun, reflecting a jagged silver beam across the floor. It was a constant reminder of my failure. Every time I moved my hand, the metal bit into my skin, a cold bite that whispered one name: Adrian.
At exactly nine, the door to the master suite opened. Adrian walked in, followed by Doctor Julian. Julian looked as if he hadn't slept in a week. He carried a small, sterilized metal case that looked far too much like a toolkit for a jeweler—or a butcher.
Adrian didn't look at me with the rage of the previous nig
