You followed the assistant down the long, sterile corridor, your footsteps muffled by the polished floors. The air here was thick—oppressive. The walls, lined with reinforced glass screens, separated you from the captives inside.

It was nothing short of a nightmare.

Muffled cries seeped through the barriers, quiet sobs of those who had already lost hope. Others were more desperate—pounding against the glass with raw, reddened fists, their voices hoarse from screaming.

"Please—just let me go!"

"I have a family! They're waiting for me!"

"I don't belong here!"

Some merely stared, hollow-eyed and defeated.

Your chest tightened, but you forced your expression to remain neutral. Your nails dug into your palms, fingers clenched tight at your sides. Don't let it show. Don't give yourself away.

Every instinct screamed at you to do something. To break the glass. To fight. To rip open these doors and free them all.

But you weren't a hero.

You weren't strong enough to fight the system.

Right now, you only had one weapon: your mind.

So you straightened your posture, lifted your chin, and kept walking. The assistant, oblivious to your turmoil, continued to lead the way.

The search dragged on.

Thirty agonizing minutes passed.

With every step, your heart pounded harder against your ribs. Your gaze scanned each room, searching, hoping—where is she?

Orange hair. Porcelain skin. Maya.

But you saw nothing.

A sick feeling curled in your stomach.

What if she's not here?

What if she's already been taken?

Your pulse spiked. No. No, that can't be.

You struggled to keep your breathing steady, but your hands had gone ice-cold. A hundred terrible scenarios clawed at your mind.

What if she was already given away? What if she was in the hands of a Tainted? What if she was trapped in some stranger's home, forced into an obsession she could never escape from?

You were too late.

The assistant suddenly stopped and turned to face you.

"Have you found anyone to your liking?"

The question made bile rise in your throat. The way they spoke of human lives—as if choosing a pet, a thing—disgusted you.

You forced yourself to exhale slowly, composing yourself.

"I have... a preference," you said, voice carefully measured.

The assistant perked up slightly. "Oh? That makes it easier."

You paused deliberately, as if hesitant to admit it. Then, you allowed a slight sigh to escape—just enough to make it seem as though this decision meant something to you.

"I prefer... someone with orange hair." You feigned a sheepish smile, as if embarrassed to be picky. "Porcelain skin. Female, if possible."

The assistant pursed her lips, thinking.

"That's... rather specific," she admitted. "But I can check our records. If we have someone who fits your type, I'll need to get approval from the higher-ups."

You gave her an apologetic yet hopeful look, tilting your head slightly. "I know I'm asking for a lot, but... I was hoping for someone who reminds me of someone I once knew." You let your voice soften, let a wistful, longing expression cross your face. "It's silly, I know. But love is irrational, isn't it?"

The assistant smiled, completely unaware of your act.

"That's quite true." She nodded, seemingly more inclined to help. "Please wait in the lounge. I'll return once I have an answer."

You exhaled, nodding as she gestured toward the waiting room.

With a final forced smile, you stepped inside.

The moment you were alone, you let your shoulders sag, your hands trembling slightly at your sides.

This was it.

The fate of your best friend was in the hands of the facility's records.

And if they told you she wasn't here...

You didn't know what you would do next.

Your fingers flipped through the stack of documents, scanning the endless rows of names, numbers, and classifications. The receptionist's desk had been left unattended, and you weren't about to waste the opportunity.

Maya. Where are you?

Anxiety coiled in your stomach like a tightening vice. Your hands trembled slightly, slick with cold sweat. The facility's oppressive silence only made it worse—every small noise felt amplified, every breath too loud.

You didn't care about the cameras.

You would be long gone before they could put a name to your face. By the time they realized someone had been snooping, you'd already be slipping into another identity, another disguise.

Still, the pressure was mounting.

The longer you stayed here, the more likely someone would notice.

Come on, come on...

You bit your lower lip, flipping another page. Your heartbeat pounded against your ribs, each second stretching unbearably.

Maya's name has to be here.

Fifteen minutes had passed, and you were still digging through the files when—

Knock. Knock.

A sudden, deliberate tap against the desk made your entire body jolt.

Your breath hitched.

Shit.

Had someone caught on? Had they realized you were somewhere you weren't supposed to be?

Slowly, you lifted your gaze, forcing yourself to remain composed.

And then—

You froze.

A man stood before you.

Not a guard. Not a staff member.

A stranger—one who looked as though he had stepped out of a dream.

His features were delicate yet striking, his beauty almost otherworldly. Golden-blonde hair framed his face in soft, slightly messy strands, catching the overhead lights and glowing like molten sunlight. His complexion was porcelain-pale, unblemished and smooth.

But it was his eyes that caught you off guard the most.

A deep, haunting red.

They burned like dying embers—rich with something unreadable, something painful.

Longing?

Your stomach twisted.

Wait... is he Tainted?

Your pulse skyrocketed, and your muscles tensed instinctively.

Was he here searching for his beloved? Had he already chosen someone, marked them as his? Or worse—had he mistaken you for someone he was looking for?

No—focus.

You swallowed down your panic and forced a polite, business-like expression onto your face.

The man tilted his head slightly, studying you with mild curiosity.

"I didn't mean to startle you," he said, his voice soft, almost lyrical. "You seem... very focused."

He must have mistaken you for a receptionist.

Good.

That gave you an advantage.

Sliding the documents aside, you straightened your posture, slipping into your manipulative act with practiced ease.

"Apologies," you said smoothly, offering a small, composed smile. "I was reviewing some files."

He seemed unfazed, his crimson gaze lingering on you.

"Are you in charge of pairing today?" he asked, his tone light but laced with something unreadable.

Your fingers twitched slightly.

Was he asking if you were the one assigning the Beloveds?

You had to be careful. One wrong move, one misplaced word, and you'd be caught.

Tilting your head slightly, you let out a soft hum.

"Not quite," you replied, allowing a note of amusement to slip into your tone. "But I do handle certain requests."

His lips curled ever so slightly.

"Is that so?"

You could feel him observing you, analyzing you, as if peeling back layers you weren't even aware of.

A chill ran down your spine.

He was dangerous.

Not in the obvious, aggressive way the guards were—but in a different way. A quieter, more insidious kind of danger.

You needed to get out of this conversation.

Clearing your throat, you offered him a professional nod. "Is there someone in particular you're looking for?"

His expression remained unreadable.

For a long moment, he simply watched you, the red of his eyes glinting under the artificial light.

Then—

He smiled.

And for some reason, that smile sent a sharp bolt of unease down your spine.