Chapter 6: Binding Truths

The observation cell had become something other than a room.

The walls no longer felt like concrete—they breathed. Slow, shallow inhalations that drew the cold deeper, exhaling frost in visible waves that curled through the air like living smoke. The single overhead bulb no longer flickered; it throbbed—pulsing in a rhythm that matched the sigil now fully etched into the small window’s glass, its lines glowing a sickly, hungry blue that cast the entire space in underwater light. Every pulse sent a ripple through the frost, making it creep outward in branching veins that looked less like ice and more like something growing beneath the surface—searching, tasting.

The air was so cold it burned—sharp enough to sting lungs with every inhale, yet thick, heavy, as if the room itself were drowning. Breath crystallized instantly, hanging in dense clouds that drifted with unnatural slowness, shaping themselves into fleeting sigils before dissolving into nothing. The scent of ozone was overwhelming now—metallic, electric, layered with brimstone and the faint, sweet rot of old incense left too long in a sealed tomb. Beneath it all ran a darker note: copper, blood that wasn’t there, and something older—decay and hunger intertwined.

Rikki Fire entered without knocking, locking the door behind her with a soft, deliberate click that echoed too long, as if the room repeated it back in a whisper. The sigil on the window flared brighter in greeting—or warning—casting her shadow across the floor in distorted, elongated shapes that moved a heartbeat after she did.

Sophia Voss sat on the edge of the narrow cot, wrists still wrapped in Rikki’s crimson silk scarf, knots intact and tight enough to leave raised red lines on her pale skin that looked almost like ritual marks. The black blindfold remained in place, knotted snugly, turning her face into a canvas of darkness and anticipation. Her coat had been removed—hung carefully on the back of the room’s only chair—leaving her in the simple black sweater and jeans from booking, fabric clinging damply from the unnatural humidity the cold somehow created. Her posture was open, vulnerable, but her body radiated a quiet, thrumming energy—like a string pulled taut, vibrating with power that couldn’t quite break free.

Shadow had been released from his carrier and now prowled the small space with feline arrogance—tail high, fur bristling, yellow eyes glowing like twin full moons in the sigil’s light. From his perspective, the room was a maelstrom of sensation: Sophia’s jasmine warmth clashing with Rikki’s sharp, clean heat of gun oil and leather, overlaid with the metallic bite of ozone and the deeper, older scent of something vast and starving circling them both. The sigil wasn’t just glowing—it was feeding. Thin threads of shadow extended from it, invisible to human eyes but transparent to Shadow—tasting the air, brushing against the women’s skin like curious fingers, growing bolder with every shared breath, every spike of tension.

Rikki pulled the single metal chair closer—scraping it deliberately across the floor, the sound harsh and grating in the quiet, echoing as if the room had depth it shouldn’t. She straddled it backward, arms folded over the backrest, eyes never leaving Sophia—even as the shadows in the corners seemed to lean in, listening.

“You haven’t used your safe word,” Rikki said, voice low and rough, carrying easily in the frozen, heavy air. The words hung visibly for a moment, crystallized, before dissolving.

Sophia’s blindfolded head turned toward the sound—slow, deliberate, as if scenting the air. Her lips curved in a small, knowing smile, making the sigil pulse brighter. “Runes,” she repeated softly, as if tasting the word again—and something in the room tasted it with her. “No. I haven’t.”

“Good,” Rikki murmured. She leaned forward slightly, the chair creaking under her weight—a sound that echoed too long, as if the room repeated it in a whisper from the walls. “Then let’s try again. Malachar. Tell me everything. Slowly. I want to feel it.”

Sophia shifted on the cot—subtle, but the movement pulled the silk scarf tighter against her wrists, drawing a soft, involuntary exhale that fogged the air in front of her. The sound was intimate, almost a moan, and the sigil responded—flaring brighter, sending a ripple through the frost that made it creep faster across the ceiling. “Where would you like me to begin, Detective?” she asked, voice husky, laced with old pain and fresh, electric heat. “The part where Elias seduced a twenty-three-year-old witch with promises of power and pleasure? Or the part where he bound my magic so tightly I couldn’t even light a candle without feeling him inside my skin—watching, touching, owning?”