The next three days were a test of endurance—not of the body, but of the mind. Deon spent them in a state of hyper-vigilance, mapping the geography of his cage and the woman who held the key. He kept himself sane by counting: the number of floorboards within reach (twenty-four), the seconds it took for the sunlight to move from the bedpost to the vanity (four thousand, two hundred), and the exact frequency of Avina's visits.
He watched her with the intensity of a scientist observing a lethal new specimen. He looked for the "Mafia Queen"—the cold, calculating killer who had shoved him off a bridge—but she remained frustratingly hidden.
Instead, Avina was a whirlwind of casual, almost domestic chaos. She would enter humming, her oversized shirt practically swallowing her, and proceed to spend hours meticulously cleaning surfaces that were already sterile. Her mannerisms were jarringly modern; she'd scroll through a tablet while sitting cross-legged on the floor, or pop a piece of bubblegum while polishing the silver fireplace tools.
Deon's confusion grew like a fever. She wasn't touching him. She wasn't torturing him. The food—truffle pasta today, honey-glazed salmon yesterday—was untainted.
What is the game? he wondered, his eyes narrowing as she dusted a picture frame. She's not a captor. She's a curator.
He decided to pivot. The physical escape was a fool's errand until he understood the logic of the Blackwood Estate. He needed to build a bridge of words.
"You missed a spot," Deon said, his voice raspy from disuse.
Avina froze. She was currently buffing the brass handle of the wardrobe. She turned slowly, her green-streaked hair falling over one eye. A slow, delighted grin spread across her face.
"He speaks! The statue has a tongue," she chirped, skipping toward the center of the room but staying just outside his radius. "Which spot, my precious echo? Tell me, and I'll make it shine like a diamond."
"The left lion's eye on the vanity," Deon said, keeping his expression neutral. "There's a smudge of oil."
Avina gasped, her hand flying to her chest in mock horror. "Disaster! Absolute ruin!" She sprinted to the vanity, her sneakers squeaking, and began to scrub the brass with frantic intensity. "Thank you, Deon. You have such a good eye. He used to be the same way. He could spot a speck of dust from across the ballroom."
Deon leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Is that why I'm here? Because I have your previous pet's eyes?"
Avina stopped scrubbing. The playful light in her eyes flickered, replaced by a deep, swirling blue that felt like the ocean at night. She walked toward him, stopping at the very edge of the chain's limit. She sat down on the floor, crossing her legs, her oversized t-shirt pooling around her like a tent.
"You're here because you were throwing away something that belongs to me," she said softly. Her voice lost its sing-song quality. It sounded old. Centuries old. "The soul is a stubborn thing, Deon. It likes to keep its shape. You think you're a new man, born in a new time, but I know the curve of your collarbone. I know the way your heart skips when you're nervous."
"You're doing it again," Deon said, his voice cutting through her humming.
Avina stopped, a feather duster poised in mid-air. She turned, her green-streaked hair messy from her "work." She blinked at him, tilting her head like a curious bird. "Doing what, my favorite echo? Being fabulous? It's a full-time job, really."
"Being indirect," Deon countered, leaning forward as far as the chain allowed. "You say I'm 'yours.' You say I'm an 'echo.' But you treat me like a piece of furniture you're afraid to scratch. If you're going to keep me here, the least you can do is tell me the truth. What is your actual intention for me?"
Avina skipped closer, stopping just outside his reach. She twirled the feather duster between her fingers. "Intentions are such heavy things, Deon. So... final. I prefer possibilities. Maybe I'm keeping you here to teach you how to appreciate a well-waxed floor. Or maybe," she leaned in, her eyes sparkling with a mischievous, dark light, "I'm just waiting for the 'you' inside you to wake up and say hello."
Deon felt a surge of heat in his chest. "That's not an answer. That's a riddle. Why am I chained to a bed in a mansion that looks like a museum? Why do you look like a college student but talk like a widow from the nineteenth century?"
Avina tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps I'm a time traveler. Or a very dedicated method actor. Or maybe," she whispered, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush, "I'm just a girl who hates to see a good thing go to waste."
"Stop it!" Deon snapped, his frustration boiling over. He stood up, the chain rattling violently against the wood. "I am a human being, not a project! Your 'playful' act is exhausting. Every time I ask a real question, you hide behind a joke. It's pathetic. You're either a coward or a lunatic, and I can't decide which is worse."
He glared at her, his face flushed with irritation, his jaw set in a hard, angry line. He expected her to snap back, to show the "Mafia Queen" teeth, or to storm out in a rage.
Instead, Avina froze. She looked at his fuming expression—the way his eyebrows were knotted and his lip was curled in genuine annoyance.
Suddenly, a sound erupted from her that Deon hadn't heard before. It wasn't a snicker or a manic giggle. It was a genuine, chest-deep laugh. It was bright, melodic, and startlingly human. She bent over, clutching her stomach, her green hair falling over her face as she let out a peal of pure, unscripted amusement.
"Oh... oh, Deon," she gasped between breaths, wiping a tear from her eye. "You look... you look exactly like he did when I forgot to buy his favorite tobacco in 1842. That little vein in your forehead... It's perfect. You're so angry at me."
Deon stood stunned. The sound of her real laughter was like a lightning strike in the room. It stripped away the "crazy woman" mask, revealing a glimpse of the girl she must have been before the centuries and the Devil had taken their toll. For a split second, he didn't see a captor; he saw a woman who was desperately, heartbreakingly lonely.
Avina caught her breath, her smile lingering for a heartbeat—and then her entire demeanor shifted.
The realization of what she had done seemed to hit her like a physical blow. Her laughter cut off instantly. Her expression went flat, her eyes wide with a sudden, sharp alarm. She looked at Deon, then at her own hands, as if she had accidentally dropped something precious and watched it shatter.
She had been casual. She had been real. And for her, reality was the one thing she couldn't afford.
"I... I have to check the perimeter," she said, her voice now cold and clipped, the playful lilt completely gone.
She didn't look at him again. She turned on her heel and sprinted toward the door, her sneakers squeaking frantically on the floor she had spent all morning polishing.
"Avina, wait!" Deon called out, taking a step toward her.
The door slammed shut before he could finish. The heavy bolt slid home with a sound of finality that felt different this time.
Deon sank back onto the bed, his heart hammering against his ribs. He had wanted to break her act, but now that he had, he felt a strange, cold hollow in his stomach. He had seen the woman behind the mask, and she was more terrified of him than he was of her.
He looked down at the chain. He had intended to befriend her to find a way out. But as he remembered the sound of her genuine laugh, he realized the "escape" was no longer just about the door. It was about the secrets buried in the silence of her heart.
***
An hour later, Deon heard the soft click-clack of her sneakers outside before the door even moved. When Avina stepped inside, she wasn't carrying a duster or a tray of food. Instead, she held a sleek, white rectangular device—a remote control with a single, glowing blue button—and a stack of folded fabric that smelled faintly of cedar and expensive detergent.
She didn't look at him, her eyes studiously avoiding his after the vulnerability of her laughter earlier. She simply pointed the remote at the heavy mahogany bedpost.
With a mechanical whir, the internal mechanism of the post groaned. The silver chain, which had been his fourteen-foot leash, began to feed out from the wood, slithering across the floor like a living thing. It didn't stop until the slack lay in heavy coils near his feet, giving him enough length to reach the marble-tiled bathroom at the far end of the suite.
"The sensor will beep if you try to take it further than the threshold," she said, her voice restored to its usual clipped, airy tone. "Don't make it beep, Deon. It's a very shrill, annoying sound, and I have a headache."
She tossed the stack of clothes onto the foot of the bed.
"Wash up. You're starting to smell like a man who's been living on a bridge. We have guests coming soon—well, one guest—and I won't have you looking... unpolished."
Deon ignored the remote for a moment, his attention fixed on the clothes. He picked up the top layer: a crisp, white button-down shirt made of a fabric so fine it felt like water. Beneath it was a pair of dark, tailored trousers and a set of charcoal-grey silk socks.
He held the shirt up, his brow furrowing. He looked at the collar. 15.5. He checked the sleeves. 34.
A cold shiver, sharper than the winter wind on the bridge, raced down his spine. He reached for the trousers, checking the inner waistband. 32-32.
"How do you have these?" Deon asked, his voice barely a whisper. He looked up at her, his eyes wide with a new kind of dread. "These are my exact sizes, Avina. Not just 'medium' or 'large.' These are tailored to me. Every measurement."
Avina, who had been adjusting a porcelain vase on the vanity, didn't flinch. She kept her back to him, her reflection in the mirror obscured by the angle.
"I've had a long time to shop, Deon," she said casually, though her fingers trembled slightly as they touched the rim of the vase. "When you've waited as long as I have, you tend to get the details right. I know the width of your shoulders. I know the break of your stride. I even know that your left foot is a fraction of an inch longer than your right."
Deon dropped the shirt as if it were made of hot coals. The level of premeditation was staggering. This wasn't a crime of opportunity; it was a curated destiny. She hadn't just found him on the bridge—she had been waiting for the man who fit the clothes.
"You're a monster," he breathed.
Avina finally turned. She looked at him, the white remote clutched in her hand like a scepter. For a second, the "Mafia Queen" mask slipped, and he saw the haunting, ancient noblewoman beneath the oversized t-shirt.
"No," she said softly, her voice echoing in the sterile room. "I'm a woman who refuses to lose the same thing twice. Now, go. The water is already hot, and the soap is sandalwood. Your favorite."
She turned and walked out, the remote clicking as she locked the door behind her, leaving Deon alone with a set of clothes that felt like a second skin—one he had never asked to wear.