Chapter 2:Defiance

Silas woke with a sharp inhale, his body jolting upright as if an unseen force had yanked him from a nightmare. His first instinct was rage—rage at whoever had the audacity to move him, to strip him of control. But as his eyes adjusted to the dim glow of the chandelier overhead, irritation twisted into something colder.

Where the hell was he?

His fingers dragged over soft cotton sheets. The air smelled like aged paper and polished wood, like a library no one ever touched. His brows furrowed as he looked down at himself—black slacks, a crisp white shirt. No water. No torn fabric.

For a moment, something ugly curled at the edge of his thoughts. I died.

No.

His lips twisted into something between a smirk and a sneer as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. This is bullshit. He was alive because he was always going to be alive. Because the world didn't get to take anything from him. He'd played this game long enough to know how it worked. He must've been drugged, hallucinating. Some bastard had slipped him something, maybe even staged the whole thing for their own sick amusement.

That was the only explanation.

He exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "Alright, you bastards," he muttered, dragging a hand through his tousled hair. "You got your fun. Where's the punchline?"

Silence.

A flicker of irritation burned in his chest. He wasn't about to sit here like some idiot, waiting for answers that wouldn't come. He pushed himself up, the cool wood floor pressing against his bare feet.His jaw clenched. Whoever had set this up had gone through a lot of trouble, and if they thought he'd panic, they clearly didn't know who they were dealing with.

He strode toward the heavy wooden door, fingers curling around the handle. Cold, solid. He twisted it with ease, the door swinging open without resistance. The hallway beyond stretched into darkness, sconces flickering weakly along the walls.

The silence was suffocating, but Silas refused to acknowledge the unease creeping at the edges of his mind. None of this is real. It's a trick. A setup. A hallucination. And as long as he held onto that, he hadn't lost anything.

Because if he had really died—if he had truly lost—then nothing he ever built mattered.

[Welcome to Hollowmoor]

Silas barely took two steps into the hallway before his vision flickered. A sharp, mechanical chime rang in his ears, followed by an unnatural hum that made his skin crawl.

[System Initializing…]

His body stiffened. The words weren't spoken aloud, yet they echoed inside his skull like an intrusive thought. A deep blue interface materialized in front of him, translucent but solid, hovering in the air.

[Loading world…]

[World Designation: Hollowmoor]

[Genre: Gothic Horror, Psychological Horror, Supernatural Horror]

[Primary Setting: Hollowmoor Manor—An ever-shifting labyrinth of madness, a house that breathes, devours, and remembers. No one leaves unchanged. Some do not leave at all.]

Silas blinked. Then blinked again. A slow smirk curled his lips.

"Alright," he muttered, crossing his arms. "Now this is some next-level insanity."

This had to be a reality show. Or some twisted social experiment. Maybe even an underground game for the rich and depraved. He'd heard of those—high-stakes, immersive, where people paid obscene amounts to watch others claw their way through fabricated nightmares.

The system, oblivious to his skepticism, continued.

[Loading Host Body…]

A cold shudder ran down Silas's spine, though he refused to acknowledge it. A strange, weightless sensation settled over him—like his body wasn't entirely his own. His fingers twitched. His posture felt… off.

[Host Body Successfully Loaded.]

[Body: Identical to previous host body in structure and appearance.]

[Deviation: Slightly reduced in size due to world constraints.]

Silas's smirk twitched. His gaze snapped down to himself, and his jaw tightened.

Smaller?

He flexed his fingers, rolled his shoulders. Everything felt the same, but there was an undeniable wrongness, like his limbs didn't stretch as far as they should. He was still tall, still strong—but the subtle change gnawed at him.

"Tch." He scoffed, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Really? What, did your 'world constraints' run out of pixels or something?"

The system didn't respond to his sarcasm.

[Assigning Role…]

[Role: The Uninvited Guest]

[You are a stranger in Hollowmoor Manor. An outsider. A disruption. You were never meant to be here, and the house knows it.]

[Your existence unsettles the balance. Your presence is an anomaly. You do not belong.]

[You must carve a place for yourself or risk being erased.]

Silas let out a sharp laugh. "You make it sound like the house is alive."

The system didn't deny it.

[Final Directive: To survive, you must gain the favor of the one who holds the strings of fate.]

[Warning: System is unable to identify this entity. The host must determine them first.]

Silas frowned, irritation creeping in. "That's it? No clues? No dramatic villain reveal?" He spread his arms mockingly. "What, am I supposed to go around shaking hands until someone doesn't try to stab me?"

Silence.

He exhaled, rolling his eyes. "Right. Figures."

The more he thought about it, the more this entire setup reeked of performance art. It had all the hallmarks of a high-budget horror attraction—elaborate setting, cryptic mechanics, and a sadistic puppet master pulling the strings.

And Silas hated playing someone else's game.

But fine. If this was how they wanted to entertain their audience, he'd give them a damn show.

Turning a corner, he spotted a tall, oval-shaped mirror on the far wall. The ornate frame was carved with intricate designs—twisting vines and what looked like faces, all subtly watching him. He smirked. "How cliché," he muttered, striding toward it.

He stepped in front of the glass and paused.

The reflection staring back at him was unmistakably his—sharp jawline, piercing eyes, a charisma that still made him look like he owned the room. But… there was something off. Something subtly wrong.

His hair—normally a deep, blood-red—was lighter. Not just by a shade, but a few shades. More fiery, like the embers of a dying fire.

Then, his eyes flicked downward.

He looked smaller.

Not much, but enough. The height he'd always relied on, the power in his stature, was just… less. He looked leaner, more compact, his shoulders not as broad as they should have been. His clothes, still fitting, seemed to hang a little too loosely.

A laugh bubbled up in his chest—bitter, but laced with amusement. "Well, well, well," he said, running a hand through his lighter hair, "they really did it, didn't they? Reduced me to this."

He stepped closer, inspecting himself more closely in the glass. The reflection was… almost perfect. And as much as he hated the idea of being smaller, there was a strange satisfaction in how flawlessly they'd captured him.

Impressive. For a second, Silas found himself actually admiring the effort. They'd pulled off the illusion perfectly, down to the tiniest detail, all to make him think this was real.

His lips twisted into a cocky grin as he leaned forward, looking himself up and down once more. "But let's get one thing straight," he murmured, cocking his head slightly to the side. "Even reduced in size, I'm still the sexiest man alive."

He winked at the mirror, almost as if it was someone else watching him instead of his own reflection.

"Don't get too comfortable," he added with a mock glare. "You'll only have this sight for so long."

He turned, not waiting for the mirror to respond—because, clearly, it wasn't going to.

For all his irritation, Silas knew exactly how to make the world bend to his will.

And damn, did he love it.

Silas was almost too confident as he moved through the manor's endless hallway. He had the distinct feeling that something—someone—was watching him

It wasn't until a high-pitched scream shattered the heavy silence that his attention snapped.

His heart skipped, but only for a second. He quickly dismissed the feeling. Screams were just part of the territory, right? Some overdramatic actor looking for their moment, a carefully timed sound cue, or maybe even one of the producers trying to rattle him.

Still, the hair on the back of his neck prickled as he turned toward the source.

Without a second thought, he started running.He was on the second floor, which meant he'd have to navigate down the spiraling staircase.

The farther down he went, the louder the murmurs and the panicked whispers became, and Silas's curiosity—his ever-present arrogance—drove him forward. What a show this is turning out to be.

By the time he reached the bottom, he saw a small crowd of people gathered in the foyer, huddling around a woman. She was trembling, her hands pressed to her face, her eyes swollen from tears. Silas couldn't help but notice the way she clung to the man beside her, as if he was the only thing tethering her to reality.

The woman's wild, disheveled hair framed her face like she had just emerged from a nightmare—her breath hitched in sobs as she muttered something over and over.

As Silas approached, the people in the circle shifted, revealing the source of the woman's distress. In the center of their group, lying still on the ground, was a figure—motionless, eerily serene. It was another woman, her body unnaturally sprawled in a position that spoke more of something wrong than of an accident.

Silas stared down at the body, his expression carefully composed but he was more than a little uncomfortable.

However,he wasn't about to let a fake corpse shake him.

With a slow, almost lazy motion, he lifted his foot and nudged the woman's shoulder. The body didn't move. No flinch, no shift, no sign of life. Just dead weight.

Silas let out a short, humorless chuckle. "Damn," he muttered, tapping the side of his boot against her arm again. "She's really committed to the role, huh?"

Silence.

The group around him—six people, all still huddled close, as if proximity could protect them—stared at him like he'd just crawled out of a grave himself. Eyes wide, faces pale. The teary-eyed woman clinging to the man beside her let out a shaky breath, like she couldn't believe what she'd just heard.

A sharp-looking man with glasses was the first to speak. "Are you serious right now?" His voice was tight, like he was holding back the urge to either yell or throw up. Maybe both.

Silas arched a brow, feigning nonchalance. "What? You all look like you've never seen a dead body before."

The teary-eyed woman made a small, choked noise, gripping the man next to her even tighter. The others exchanged looks—uneasy, horrified, and in some cases, outright disturbed.

A younger guy near the back—tall, lanky, and looking a little too pale—shifted uncomfortably. "You're acting like this is normal."

Silas smirked, though it felt thinner than usual. "Maybe I just have a different threshold for normal."

In truth, his skin felt tight, like something was crawling beneath it. His fingers twitched at his sides. The way the dead woman lay so still, so wrong, made his stomach turn in a way he refused to acknowledge.

He clicked his tongue, stepping back from the corpse like she was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. "Alright, so who's gonna check for a pulse?" His gaze flicked toward the group, expectant. "Or are we just standing here waiting for the horror movie soundtrack to kick in?"

Silas exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "Fine," he muttered. "Guess I'll do it myself."

No one moved."You shouldn't touch her."The man in glasses quipped in but Silas ignored him.

And then he crouched down, reaching for the woman's wrist.

Silas's fingers barely brushed against the woman's wrist before he realized something was very wrong.

Her skin was cold. Not the kind of cool you'd get from standing too close to an air vent—this was deeper, deader. A stiff, unsettling chill that felt more like touching a slab of raw meat left out too long.

His hand jerked away before he even registered what he was doing.

"Oh shit—" The words left him on an awkward, breathless laugh as he stumbled back, nearly falling on his ass. "That's an actual dead body."

He wiped his hand on his shirt. Once. Twice. Then a third time, rubbing his palm against the fabric like he could erase the sensation. "Oh wow," he muttered, voice climbing higher, "that's—yep, that's definitely a corpse."

The group just stared at him.

The teary-eyed woman clinging to the tall guy looked seconds away from slapping him. The man in glasses was pressing his fingers into his temple like he was getting the world's worst migraine. He took a full step back, muttering, "I told you not to touch her, man."

Silas, still frantically wiping his hand down his shirt, let out a nervous chuckle. "Well, excuse me for checking! What, did you all just know from a glance? Some kinda dead body experts now?*"

"Yes," the guy in glasses snapped. "Because she's not breathing."

Silas opened his mouth—then closed it.

He peeked at the body again. No rise, no fall. No twitch, no involuntary reflex. Just nothing.

His stomach flipped.

Silas's breath hitched, and for the first time, it really hit him. That wasn't just somebody lying there. That wasn't a stunt. That wasn't some weird, elaborate joke.

That was an actual, rotting corpse.

His hands twitched as he looked at them, like the death had somehow soaked into his skin. His mouth opened and closed, his thoughts spinning too fast to make sense of. And then, because his brain decided the best reaction was not to process this like a normal person, he threw his hands in the air and snapped—

"Do you even know who I am?!"

The man standing nearby exhaled sharply, muttering, "Oh, here we go."

"No, seriously!" Silas whipped toward them, his eyes wild, pointing like he was calling people out in a courtroom. "You all let me touch that thing—do you understand how insane that is?! You're all going to hear from my lawyers—"

"You don't have lawyers," the guy in glasses muttered.

Silas scoffed, "Are you stupid?! I own the biggest company in the world! I have entire teams of lawyers! I could ruin your fucking lives—" He jabbed a finger at each of them, his voice rising with every syllable. "I could take your houses, your jobs—hell, I could make sure your kids never get into a decent school!"

The girl with the ponytail groaned. "Oh my God, shut up—"

"No, you shut up!" Silas snapped, shaking his hands like he was trying to fling off the memory of the corpse's clammy skin. "I'm in shock! This is literal trauma! I should be in a spa right now, not—"

A sharp smack rang through the room.

For a second, everything went silent.

Silas stood there, his mind still stuck on the fact that someone had actually put their hands on him. It wasn't just the slap—it was the sheer audacity of it. His cheek still tingled, his ego bruised more than his skin.

Glasses stared at him, unimpressed. "You good now, pretty boy? Or do you need another?"

Silas clenched his jaw, torn between outrage and the creeping realization that throwing another fit might not end well for him.

Glasses, clearly tired of the theatrics, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and exhaled. "Now that that's settled, let's move on to something actually important." He gave Silas a pointed look. "You touching that body might've just raised a death flag."

Silas, still rubbing his face, frowned. "A what?"

"A death flag," Glasses spoke slowly, like he was explaining to a particularly dim child. "As in, you just did the one thing that guarantees someone in a horror movie dies next."

Silas blinked. "You—" He paused, running a hand down his face. "You're joking."

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

Silas opened his mouth, then shut it.

The others in the group looked more uncomfortable now, shifting nervously. The man crossed his arms, muttering, "Idiot's got us all marked."

"Oh, please." Silas scoffed, still trying to act like this didn't rattle him. "You're seriously saying that because I touched her, I'm going to die?" He forced out a laugh, though it was weaker than he would have liked. "That's ridiculous. It's—"

His stomach twisted.

Glasses gave him a slow, deadpan clap. "And there it is. Took you long enough."

Silas let out a short, nervous laugh. "This is crazy. No. No, you're all crazy. I—I have actual responsibilities. I have meetings. I have—"

"Nothing," Glasses interrupted. "You have nothing now. You're dead. You can throw as many tantrums as you want, but it won't change the facts. This is a horror simulation. You survive, or you don't. And if you don't, that's it."

Silas's breathing came faster. "No. No, see, that doesn't make sense. I remember everything. I was fine. There's no way I just—" He trailed off, gripping his hair, his panic bleeding through despite himself. "I don't die. People like me don't just die—"

"And yet here you are," Glasses muttered.

Silas's eyes darted to him, wild and desperate, his mouth opening for another protest—

The man exhaled sharply, his gaze sweeping across the room as he gestured for everyone to gather. "Alright, listen up. Everyone introduce yourselves. You'll want to know who you're stuck with."

There was a brief pause as no one moved, the weight of the situation settling over them like a heavy fog. Silas stood still, his eyes locked on the group but his mind elsewhere. He wasn't really processing the words being spoken around him.

The heavily tattooed guy in a prison uniform seemed the least affected by the tension in the room. He stood with his arms crossed, scanning everyone with a calculating gaze, as though evaluating who might be the weakest link. Next to him, the lanky kid—barely out of high school—was still dressed in a wrinkled school uniform. His face was pale, eyes darting around with a barely contained panic, trying to make sense of it all.

A young couple stood together, the woman clutching onto the man beside her, her distress clear. And finally, there was a woman who appeared to be a doctor, her expression one of calm resolve despite the uncertainty in the room.

Doc was the first to speak. Her voice, though firm, betrayed a hint of the same uncertainty etched across her face. "Aminata Jalloh. I'm a surgeon."

The man beside her followed suit, clearing his throat as if trying to reassert some control over the situation. "Yoshida Kenji. I work in finance."

Tattooed guy smirked, his grin lopsided as he tilted his head back slightly. "Jesse. That's all you need to know."

The kid hesitated, his voice barely above a whisper. "Hikaru."

The woman's voice trembled as she spoke. "Vera."

There was a brief moment of silence before Silas finally spoke, his tone flat and detached. "Silas." He didn't feel the need to give them more than that,not until he could process what was happening .The names didn't matter—not here, not now.

The man who had gathered them didn't offer his name, instead crouching beside the body on the floor. He carefully avoided touching it, his eyes scanning the room as if waiting for something to unfold.

"Alright. Now that we've got that out of the way, listen up." The man's voice carried a weight of experience, his tone making it clear he had done this before. "This place pulls in people who've just died. I know it sounds insane, but you wouldn't be here otherwise. You're all dead."

The room fell into a tense silence, heavier than before.

Doc stiffened, shaking her head. "That's—That's not possible."

The man met her gaze evenly, his eyes unflinching. "Try remembering how you got here,you're dead but the game won't allow you to remember how exactly you died."

Her lips parted as if to argue, but no words came.

Yoshida frowned deeply. "I was at my office," he said slowly, his voice strained. "...I think." His brows furrowed, frustration creeping into his tone. "No. I was walking to my car, and then—" He stopped, the color draining from his face. His entire body went still.

The prisoner gave a dry laugh, but there was an edge to it now. "I was in a transport van," he muttered, his smirk faltering. Confusion flashed across his face. "I can't remember shit after that."

The woman and the kid both froze, their breathing hitching. The kid clenched his hands into fists, his face contorting as they tried to piece together the fragments of their memories.

The man let the realization settle over them before continuing. "This is a horror simulation. You survive, or you die. And if you die here, you don't come back."

Silas, his mind slowly piecing the situation together, finally spoke. "How do you even know all of this? Who's to say you're not in on this sick game too?"

The man glanced at him, his face emotionless. "I know because I've been assigned a task by the system to take care of new arrivals. If I make it out of this game alive, I get 200 points. This is the beginner level, so I won't die so easily."

Silas frowned slightly, his mind racing with what the others had said. What confused him, though, was that unlike the others, he remembered how he got here. That alone set him apart. He replayed the moment in his mind, the last thing he recalled before waking up here... and then it clicked. The system.

Hadn't it said he was in the Devil's Favorability System?

If this was some kind of horror simulation for the dead, why had the system told him something completely different? It didn't add up. Silas's lips twitched, his eyes narrowing as he observed the so-called veteran. Was he lying?

The man continued, oblivious to Silas's internal skepticism. "If you open your system in the upper right corner, you'll see what I'm talking about."

Silas watched as the others hesitantly followed the instructions, raising their hands slightly, making subtle gestures in the air as though tapping on something invisible. Moments later, gasps echoed around the room.

"I can see it!" Doc's voice was sharp, filled with a mix of awe and fear.

"Shit," Tattoo muttered, squinting at whatever appeared before him.

The couple, standing together, frowned. "So, this really isn't a joke."

Silas exhaled, raising his hand and mimicking their actions—gesturing toward the upper right corner just like they had.

Nothing happened.

Not a flicker, not a screen, not even an error message.

He paused, trying again—slower this time. Still nothing.

Silas lowered his hand, his expression unreadable. He wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or amused. While the others panicked over what their systems were telling them, he stood there with nothing. No interface, no notifications. Just the lingering knowledge that his was different.

The man's voice abruptly cut through the tension, his words sharper now. "Enough of this. We don't have time for introductions or confusi—"

The room fell into a heavy silence, like something unseen above them was pulling their focus upward. Silas was just about to scoff, his mind still whirling with the realization that his system was different, when he heard it—his system.

It was the unmistakable ping in the back of his mind.

[You can now see what the other players can see, for a better chance at understanding your mission target.]

Silas froze. A moment later, just like the others, something flickered into his view—a timer.

In the top corner of his vision, a digital countdown appeared, ticking down from 7 days. He glanced at the others, and they were all seeing the same thing. A collective gasp filled the room as they stared at the timer, the reality of their situation settling in like a weight on their chests.

The man cleared his throat, his voice taking on a serious tone. "That timer… is your time limit. You have 7 days to solve the mystery of this world. If you don't…" He paused, letting the words hang heavily in the air. "If you don't solve it in time, you'll all die. But it won't be a quick death. It will be… a horrible one."

A chill ran down Silas's spine, but he masked it with a smirk, even as the others shifted uncomfortably around him.

The man continued, his gaze intense, locking on each of them in turn. "You have three chances. Three lives. If you use up those lives, that's it. After that, you're permanently dead. No second chances."

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. Silas, still processing the message from the system in his head, could feel his mind racing with questions.

Solve the mystery?

Die a horrible death if we fail?

The weight of the situation settled over him, but he refused to let fear take hold. Instead, he leaned back, narrowing his eyes. "So, we're trapped in some kind of twisted game, huh?"

The man didn't respond immediately, letting the severity of his words sink in before answering, his voice heavy. "That's exactly what this is. A game you have no choice but to play. The stakes are your life, and the clock is ticking."

As the man's words lingered in the air, a sudden ping echoed through the players again.

This time, the sound that followed was light and almost playful—out of place in the tense atmosphere. A voice, distinct and brighter than the grim tone before, echoed in their minds.

System Hint:

"The moon guides those in the shadows. The path shifts with the stillness. Listen to the silence before the storm; move when the time is right. It will not be when you expect."

When it ended, their faces twisted with confusion and fear. Their eyes darted, trying to piece together the cryptic lines they had just heard.

The words were chilling in its simplicity, wrapping itself around their minds but leaving them with more questions than answers. One thing was clear—the days ahead would be fraught with peril.

The man, watching their reactions, gave a small, knowing nod. "A hint, as the system put it. You'll need every piece of information you can get to survive here. But be warned: the days are as much a trap as the world you're in."

Silas eyes shifted toward the others, their expressions tense, minds spinning, trying to make sense of it all. The air was thick with unease, and as the silence stretched on, the weight of what lay ahead seemed even more oppressive.

But then, the silence was shattered by the woman's shrill scream once again. She clutched her chest as if she had seen something unspeakable, her voice high-pitched with terror.

The others turned toward her, and for a moment, they all froze, blinking in disbelief. The body—the one that had been lifeless and cold just moments ago—was gone. Vanished. There was no trace of it anywhere.

Before anyone could speak, they heard it—a voice, soft and smooth, cutting through the air. It came from behind them.

Turning in unison, the group was met with the sight of a woman descending from the staircase. She looked... perfectly fine. Alive. Her skin was pale, but there was no hint of the lifelessness or death that had been on her moments ago. Her eyes, deep and calculating, scanned the room, making the players instinctively step back.

It was the same woman who had been lying dead on the floor.

She smiled at them, and the corners of her mouth twitched as though amused by their reactions. "Ah, there you all are," she said, her voice syrupy sweet. "Time for bedtime. The young master will soon wake up."

"Bedtime?" one of the players, dared to ask. His voice shook. "What do you mean? You—you're—dead."

The woman's smile faltered for a fraction of a second, as though she were suppressing a laugh at their ignorance. "Dead? Oh, sweet child. I was never dead." Her eyes twinkled darkly. "Now, enough questions. The young master is waiting, and it's time for you all to get some rest."

Before anyone could process the meaning behind her words, the system pinged again.

"Listen to the caretaker of the home. It is time for bed. Your rest is essential. You have been given your instructions. Follow them or face the consequences."

A strange calm descended upon Silas, despite the dread creeping up his spine. His mind raced as he processed everything. Who was this "young master" she spoke of? And why were they being told to go to bed now, of all times?

The woman gestured toward the stairway, a slight tilt of her head signaling for them to follow. The players exchanged uncertain glances, some of them visibly shaking, but no one made a move to resist.

"Go on," she urged, her voice now oddly pleasant. "Your rest is long overdue."

With no other choice, the players slowly started to file toward the stairs, their movements slow and fearful. Each step felt like they were walking deeper into a nightmare, but they obeyed, each one unable to shake the feeling that disobeying might have worse consequences than following her strange command.

They had no choice but to play along.

Silas stood motionless, his eyes following the other players as they hesitantly made their way up the stairs. The caretaker's eyes tracked each of them, her gaze never leaving them until they were all heading to their rooms. But when her eyes fell on Silas, the tension in the air thickened, and she gave him a knowing look.

He didn't move.

With a sigh, the woman took a step toward him, her voice gentle but firm. "You should go to your room. The young master will soon wake up, and he doesn't like disobedient guests."

Silas didn't even flinch. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, and the cocky smirk he had been wearing earlier returned with fake force. The woman's words bounced off him, dismissed with a mere flick of his wrist.

"Shut up," he said dismissively, his voice dripping with disdain at being told what to do. "I'm not interested in playing by your rules.I want to leave and I want to leave right now if your master is apart of this.I want to have a little talk with him. Maybe I'll just stay here and see what happens. I don't take orders from anyone."

The caretaker blinked at him, her pleasant smile not wavering, though there was a flicker of something darker in her eyes. She didn't say anything at first, instead just watching him for a long moment. Silas could feel her gaze on him, sharp and cold, but he stood his ground, his posture unyielding.

"I'm serious," he added, moving towards her. He could feel the weight of the moment, the unease hanging in the air. "I preferred you when you were lying on the floor, pretending to be dead. At least then, you weren't bothering me."

The caretaker's lips twitched, a faint smile appearing as though she found his insolence amusing. But she didn't back down. Instead, she stepped closer, her voice a soft whisper that held a subtle threat. "You would do well to listen, sir. The young master will not be pleased with your defiance. And when he is displeased... well, it's not a fate you want to face."

The smile never left her face, but her eyes turned hard, colder than before. Silas could feel his heartbeat pick up just a little, but he refused to show any sign of hesitation.

"I'm not scared of your so-called master," he said, his voice colder than hers. "And I'm not scared of you either. If you want me to go to my room, you'll have to drag me."

The caretaker's expression darkened for a brief moment, the mask of sweetness cracking just enough for Silas to glimpse the underlying menace in her gaze. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again. Her hand, which had been gently extended toward him, retracted, and her eyes softened once more, though the danger behind them remained.

With a resigned sigh, she turned on her heel and started walking up the stairs, her footsteps soft against the wood. She didn't speak again, but as she climbed the steps, she glanced back at Silas over her shoulder.