Chapter 10
Elise's POV
The night was deep, and the wind was cold.
Streetlights cast hazy yellow halos across the pavement, one after another, stretching down the empty road. I walked alone through the silent streets, my shadow elongated behind me, wavering with each step. Behind me stood Professor Miller's villa—now vacant, stripped of its occupant. Ahead lay the apartment where Liam waited for my return.
Two paths. Two cages. Both leading in the same direction—toward being controlled, being used, being discarded. But at least one of them was a cage I had walked into myself. That would have to be enough.
By the time I reached Liam's apartment building, it was already one in the morning. The old elevator groaned and creaked as it climbed slowly upward, and I leaned against the metal wall, watching the floor numbers tick by one after another, my entire body aching. The cuts on my arms and calves had begun to scab over, but they still pulled with each movement, sending waves of sharp, needle-like pain through my limbs. My dress was stained with blood and alcohol, my hair a tangled mess. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirrored panel—disheveled, like a stray cat drenched in rain.
The elevator shuddered to a halt on the twelfth floor. I walked to unit 1203, pulled out my key, and unlocked the door.
The door swung open. The living room lights were on, but no one was there.
Two wine glasses sat on the coffee table alongside an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. The sofa cushions were scattered haphazardly, and the air carried a scent of unfamiliar perfume—not mine. Another woman's.
I stood in the entryway without removing my shoes, taking in the scene quietly. Liam had brought someone back. Perhaps before I left, perhaps after. It didn't matter. What mattered was that he wasn't here now.
I set my handbag on the shoe cabinet and went to the bathroom to shower. Hot water streamed over my body, washing away the blood, the sweat, the alcohol, and the sticky residue left wherever Professor Miller had touched me. I stayed under the spray for a long time, until my skin turned red from the heat, before finally turning off the faucet.
After changing into clean clothes, I sat on the edge of the bed and took out my phone. Liam hadn't sent me any messages. I dialed his number.
Three rings. Then someone answered.
"Hello?"
A woman's voice—languid, satisfied, with a hint of huskiness.
My finger paused on the screen for a second.
"Who is this?" I asked.
There was a brief silence on the other end, followed by a soft laugh.
"Who do you think?" she said. Then, with mock curiosity: "Who are you?"
I didn't answer.
"Oh—you must be Elise, right?" Her tone suddenly became animated, as if discussing something particularly amusing. "Liam mentioned you. Said you were his... what was it? Girlfriend?"
She drew out the word "girlfriend" with exaggerated slowness.
"He's in the shower right now," she continued. "Do you want to leave a message? I can pass it along for you."
I could hear running water in the background—the sound of a shower. He really was bathing. At another woman's place, after sleeping with her, washing himself clean.
"No need," I said.
"Alright then." Her voice carried a note of triumph. "Good night."
The line went dead.
I stared at the darkened screen for a long time. My face was reflected faintly on its surface—calm, so calm that even I found it unfamiliar.
Should I be angry? Should I cry? Should I throw things, smash my phone, scream hysterically in this empty room? But I didn't want to do any of those things. I just felt tired—a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion that had been accumulating since I was thirteen years old, building up bit by bit over the years.
I turned off my phone and lay down on the bed. Liam's pillow smelled of another woman's perfume. I didn't change the pillowcase. I simply closed my eyes and let myself sink into the darkness.
---
The next morning, I woke to the sound of my alarm. Seven-thirty.
I sat up, my body feeling as though it had been disassembled and poorly reassembled. The wounds on my arms had reopened during the night, seeping pale red fluid through the bandages, and the scratches on my calves had begun to inflame, the surrounding skin flushed an unhealthy crimson.
I went to the bathroom to tend to the injuries, replacing the bandages with fresh ones, then applied makeup to conceal the exhaustion on my face. Before leaving, I checked my reflection in the mirror. The person staring back looked reasonably normal—cream-colored blouse, dark skirt, hair pulled into a low ponytail, makeup clean and understated. Nothing about my appearance suggested what had happened the night before.
I took the bus to campus. When I entered the academic building, the atmosphere in the hallways felt different from usual. Groups of students clustered together, speaking in low voices, phones held up as they shared something with one another.
"Did you see it?"
"I can't believe it."
"Apparently it all happened overnight..."
"Sophia, do you know what's going on?" I asked when I ran into her. She was huddled with several classmates, her expression a mixture of shock and confusion.
Seeing me, she hurried over and lowered her voice. "Elise, have you heard?"
"Heard what?"
"Professor Miller resigned."
I froze.
"The department office posted the notice this morning," Sophia said, pulling out her phone to show me a photo. "He submitted his resignation overnight. Didn't even finish the paperwork before leaving. The administration is completely blindsided."
I looked at the image on her screen—a printed announcement headed "Notice Regarding Professor Miller's Resignation." The language was formal and bureaucratic, stating that Professor Miller had resigned from his position as head of the sculpture department and professor due to personal reasons, effective immediately.
"Personal reasons," Sophia muttered, rolling her eyes. "What kind of personal reasons make someone flee in the middle of the night? I heard he wasn't even on campus yesterday evening. His office was completely cleared out—even the potted plants were gone."
She glanced at me, seeming to hesitate before continuing.
"What is it?" I asked.
Sophia wavered for a moment, then spoke. "Some people are saying... that something happened at Professor Miller's house yesterday. Nobody knows the details, but a student walking past the faculty housing area saw that his living room window was shattered. The police were called."
My fingers tightened slightly.
"Probably a burglary," Sophia shrugged. "Either way, he's gone now. The biggest impact for us is that we'll need a new instructor next semester."
She sighed, scrolling through messages on her phone. "There are also rumors that Professor Miller used to harass students, but no one dared speak up. I wonder if that's what finally got him caught..."
Her voice trailed off, as if afraid of being overheard.
I said nothing.
What happened to Professor Miller wasn't a burglary. And he hadn't been "caught." He had been taken away—by armed men, in the dead of night, dragged from his own living room. And I had been there when it happened.
I didn't know what Victor had done to him. Had he killed him? Imprisoned him? Or merely warned him? Victor had said, "Miller's matter—I'll handle it." And he had. In a way I didn't understand, with an efficiency I couldn't question.
Professor Miller was gone. He had resigned, emptied his office, and vanished overnight, as if he had never existed at this university at all.
This was good for me. The threat from the tattoo parlor had been eliminated. The anonymous emails would stop. I should have felt relieved. But as I walked toward the classroom, all I felt was a vague, oppressive weight—like a stone dropping into deep water without a splash, sinking silently into the mud below.
Victor had taken care of everything for me. He had abducted a university professor—or perhaps done something even more extreme—and then that professor had simply disappeared. No trace. No evidence. Just like that night when he had "cleaned up" a corpse right in front of me. Effortless.
All of this, simply because he "didn't like his possessions being touched by others."
I entered the classroom and sat in my usual seat. Sunlight streamed through the windows, warm as always. But when it touched my skin, I didn't feel warmth—I felt a creeping, unsettling chill.
Victor's words echoed in my mind: "I have patience. But my patience is not infinite."
He was waiting. Waiting for me to come to him on my own. Waiting for me to say: Yes, I'll leave Liam and come to you.
But I wasn't ready. Perhaps I would never be ready before his patience ran out. And when that happened—what would he do to me then?