Disclaimer: This chapter contains content pertinent to topics of self-harm, child abuse, and domestic abuse. Viewer discretion is advised.

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Blinking shallowly, she perceived a large mirror across the room, reflecting an empty, dirty sofa. No matter how long she stared, there was no reflection of herself.

To her left stood their old bookshelf, the one Bernard would break a month or so from then, during one of his tantrums.

She looked down at her small hands, recognizing a range of bruises on each. Her height barely reached the dining table’s edge; she was the size of a child.

Her steps were guided by a force she couldn’t resist—her actions once upon a time.

The child walked out of the living room, finding herself between the peeling walls of a dim, familiar corridor. At the corridor’s end, two doors faced each other—her mother’s room on one side, her own on the other.

Her mother’s screeching voice echoed from the bedroom. “Bernard, I swear to God, if you lay your fucking hands on her one more time—!”

“—You deaf? I said I didn’t touch the kid! You want me to say it louder?” A man’s hoarse yell rattled the walls. “I DID NOT TOUCH YOUR FUCKING KID!”

“Yeah? Yeah? And I’m supposed to believe you? What, I’m blind now?!”

The child’s eyes locked onto a drawing at the end of the hall, high on the wall. Three figures clumsily drawn on white paper: A tall man with a romantic face scar, a woman with a black eye, and a little girl holding a tiny violin. It was the happiest drawing the little girl could make, and her mother was so proud she had hung it on the wall.

“Listen, I’m telling the truth. Now fuck off before I get mad. The game's about to start." No response came from the woman. "Hear me? Get out.”

The child’s small fingers trembled as she walked closer, eyes fixated on the drawing, eyebrows pulling into a frightened frown as she saw its characters begin to melt, slowly dripping out and off of the frame.

“You can't do that, Bernard. No! WE’RE NOT DONE TALKING!” Her mother’s voice was sharp, almost breaking.

“I'm sick of these screaming matches! I can never catch a break, not even in my OWN FUCKING HOUSE. Fuck! I'm leaving," he yelled, and a shuffling nose rose from the room. "Camilla, get out of the way. Get—Let go—Let GO you crazy bitch!”

The screaming startled the kid, but it was not enough to distract her from the frame. The closer she got, the more it warped. The kid with the violin cried as the figures’ smiles twisted into angry, dripping messes. The child felt a pang of sorrow for her drawing.

“W-What did you just call me...? BERNARD!”

“Damnit, I didn't fucking lie! I CALLED YOU WHAT YOU ARE! NOW FUCK OFF, CAMILLA!”

The child reached the crack in the door to her mother’s room. Inside, two figures stood inches apart: a man with narrow shoulders and a long head towering over a woman with long, disheveled hair and a gaunt frame.

Camilla—Penelope’s mother—had always been too hot-headed for her own good. And now her deep-set green eyes bore into her lover with deadly intent. Nothing good ever came out of that specific look.

“You know what? Get out. Go!” Her breath heaved, sending her curls flying as she shoved Bernard in the chest. "GET OUT!"

“You…!" Bernard regained his balance, teeth gritted as he closed in on her again.

“GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!” Camilla refused to budge, arm pointing to the door hiding the child's shadow.

The little girl turned away. Strangely, she seemed unfazed by the slap sound, her mother’s cry, or the cruel insults that spilled out of Bernard's mouth.

She stepped into her own room and headed for her beat-up bed. Her bruised arms reached to hold her pillow, revealing a shiny black book underneath it. Ignoring it, she focused on the cushion. She sat on the bed, her small feet dangling as she shut her eyes tight, pulling the pillow closer and closer to her face.

An older, ghostly version of the bruised girl sat on the ground, leaning against the bed beside her younger self's little feet. The older girl blinked quietly, watching her own bruised wrist. The shouts and sobs from her mother's room, the suffocating little girl on the bed, and the chilling realization that Penelope was having a nightmare… all of it slowly dissolved into a cold, familiar clarity.

As her teeth sank into her wrist, Penelope knew—she needed to wake up before this nightmare swallowed her whole.

A warm hand touched my shoulder, sending a jolt of nausea twisting through my stomach.

My eyes snapped open—though they felt heavy, and my body instinctively jerked away from the touch.

Color flooded my vision, painting rusty metal bars behind a thick layer of dirty glass set into a wooden wall. My lap was a tangle of ragged fabric and shackled hands, a bitter reminder that this wasn't a nightmare, too.

"Don't touch me," I ordered, still half-awake, glaring at Alice, who stood slightly leaning forward by my side. The carriage door was open behind her.

"I spoke, but you were not responding, my lady," she replied, her expression monotone.

"Scream at me nexth time o'something. I'd hate it less." I grumbled, standing up and following her out of the carriage, the dull ache in my limbs reminding me of how long I'd been in this hellhole.

Alice, ignoring my request as always, reached out to help me out. I rolled my eyes and jumped down on my own, trudging across the ground that felt like it was trying to swallow my feet.

As I surveyed the camp, I spotted him—Truman—standing a head taller than the crowd.

"Truman, go help with the horses," barked some guy holding a list, waving Truman off toward the horses' area.

Okay, I have an idea...

My eyes narrowed as a plan formed in my head, and the corners of my mouth lifted into a mean grin.

I must’ve perked up at the thought because Alice turned to me with a suspicious frown. I quickly turned away from Truman, stretching my arms forward.

"You," a voice slithered through the air, making every hair on my body stand up. "Follow me."

Blert, with his permanent scowl, stood to my left. His usual aura of menace was tightly wrapped around him.

My neck itches at the sight of him. What a piece of shit.

Dressed in a stark white blazer, silver armor strapped on his chest and hunched shoulders, emblazoned with a Black Slithering Snake emblem, his eyes darted around us, surveying who was paying attention to our conversation. The number 4 was stamped on his left breastplate, a reminder of the authority he wielded, his chest was puffed forward, almost funnily so, and his twin daggers, black as the night and just as deadly, hung at his side. One of them was responsible for nearly slicing my throat open just yesterday.

"Talk hewe," I snapped, my tone as stern as it was angry. "The last time I fowowed you to 'talk,'" I shared his gaze with a piercing one. "I nearly got beheaded."

Blert’s eyes, beady and devoid of warmth, narrowed to slits. His lips curled in a sneer. I could almost hear his teeth grinding as he restrained himself, his knuckles whitening around the hilt of one of his daggers.

“We’ll speak in the carriage, then. But make no mistake, you’re wearing my patience thin,” he relented, waving a hand at Alice, signaling her to leave.

Alice gave the two of us a shallow nod before stepping away. Every two steps, she would glance back.

"In your dweams. That's still out of sight."

Blert bit back an insult, his nostrils flaring. "I am discontented enough with what it is I plan to discuss. Do not test your luck and make me break another bone of yours." His voice was low, almost a whisper.

I gave him a long, hard look, weighing my options. There were servants everywhere, busy setting up the camp, retrieving materials from the caravan behind my carriage. The coachman still sat on his perch, waiting for his horses' turn at the watering trough. It wasn't private by any means, but it was safer than whatever Blert would suggest otherwise.

I gave Alice a reassuring nod, making her leave, and climbed back into the carriage.

"Pick a repayment," Blert ordered as soon as we sat down, the door creaking shut behind us.

My eyebrows shot up, sleep evaporating from my system in an instant.

"A Wepayment?" I echoed, certain I was hallucinating. "From who? Don't tell me—" I covered my mouth with a hand, my eyes wide. "The young duke?"

"No, you insipid fool. From me."

My grin disappeared as quickly as it had come.

Blert repaying me? This had to be some kind of twisted joke.

"Why?" I asked.

"Don't ask foolish questions." He crossed his arms, the fabric of his blazer crinkling. "Unless you want to forgo the offer," he glared.

"No," I said immediately, my brain kicking into gear.

I tilted my head, noting the slight tremor of his finger he tried to hide by drumming it against his thigh.

This was no act of generosity. This was Blert, begrudgingly settling a debt he couldn’t stomach owing. Something like setting his twisted conscience to rest after being saved by the very person he tried to kill.

It feels gross to acknowledge he has principles, given his usual behavior.

"Alright." I said. "Easy. Set me fwee."

"Ha! Absolutely not," his snort was devoid of humor.

Sure, I had a list of demands.

"Kill yourself," I said, eyes slightly squinting in amusement.

Blert's gaze sharpened. "How about I kill you?" He put a hand on his dagger, and I pointed to the open door.

No way I'll let myself be at his mercy again.

At least now I'm aware that most people here are capable of murder, something not even growing up in that crusty neighborhood prepared me for.

"Fwee me of my shackles, then." I deadpanned.

"No way in hell. You’ll remain bound until I see fit."

I leaned back, folding my arms over my chest, giving him a flat look. "Then what’s the point of this shit? You say I’m to choose a wepayment, then you refuse everything I sugzest. Do you find this amusing?"

"That attitude..." Blert’s hands clenched into fists at his sides.