Forbidden West Wing

After the encounter in the foyer, Adrien was unusually quiet.

He left me alone that afternoon, saying something vague about “preparing the house for what’s coming.” What was coming, he wouldn’t say. Only that I “shouldn’t stray.”

Of course, I did.

---

I wandered through the upper corridors, each one dimly lit and unnervingly still. Every footstep echoed too long. Every mirror reflected angles that didn’t make sense. And all the while, I felt something watching me. Not malevolently—but knowingly. Like I was being measured.

Then I found it.

The West Wing.

A long corridor cordoned off with thick velvet ropes and a rusted sign:

...“PRIVATE – DO NOT ENTER....

Under Lock, Under Blood.”

The door beyond the ropes was different from the rest—taller, older. Covered in carvings of roses and eyes. Hundreds of eyes. Some open. Some weeping.

I knew I shouldn’t go near it.

And yet, my feet moved.

Closer. Closer.

---

I reached for the iron handle—and burned my hand.

I gasped. The handle was hot, like it had just been pulled from a forge. But there was no fire nearby. No heat in the air.

Just that door. Pulsing.

Suddenly, I heard it—

A soft sob.

A girl was crying on the other side.

...“Don’t let him take me again… please… please...”...

I froze.

My heart raced.

The sobbing grew louder.

More desperate.

...“Don’t let him turn me into one of them…”...

I turned and bolted back down the hall, adrenaline burning in my chest. The further I ran from the West Wing, the colder the air became.

When I reached the main corridor, Adrien was already waiting for me.

He didn’t look surprised.

“You heard her, didn’t you?” he said quietly.

I nodded, breathless.

“She’s been trapped behind that door for a long time,” he continued. “Longer than I’ve been alive.”

I stared at him. “Who is she?”

Adrien hesitated. Then: “Her name was Lira. She was the last one the house chose before you. She wasn’t strong enough to resist it. She disappeared… but sometimes her cries bleed through.”

I shuddered. “What does the house want from us?”

Adrien's voice darkened. “It wants what it always wants: memory. Blood. A keeper to keep its hunger quiet.”

I stepped away from him. “No. This is madness.”

He grabbed my arm gently. “You don’t understand. The house chose you. That means it’s not done yet.”

The chandelier above us flickered violently.

Paintings on the wall wept. I saw dark streaks pouring from the eyes of old portraits.

The cat darted past, hissing at nothing.

And the sobbing… returned.

...Louder. Closer. Not just from the West Wing anymore....

Adrien stepped in front of me, protectively. “You need to remember, Elira. The truth is behind that door.”

“No,” I said. “Not yet. I’m not ready.”

He nodded once. “Then we have to buy time.”

---

Later that night, I sat at the foot of my bed, clutching the locket.

The crying had stopped.

But the door was still there.

Waiting.

I could feel it.

Like a heartbeat behind the walls.

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