I didn't notice it when I was rushing upstairs, my mind buzzing with the urgency of whatever had drawn me upward.

My feet pounded the steps, one after the other, in a rhythmic, almost mindless cadence.

But now, slowing down, taking my time, breathing deliberately, the smell hit me.

Burned wood.

Not the faint, cozy hint of a fireplace or the subtle char that comes from cooking something over a stovetop, but a sharp, acrid scent that made my nose twitch and my throat tighten.

It wasn't just smoke, it was something sharper, more deliberate, a chemical tang that set my senses on high alert.

I paused on the landing, holding myself still, sniffing the air carefully as I tried to pinpoint the source.

My instincts screamed that whatever was happening wasn't ordinary.

I followed the scent, tentative yet determined, stepping lightly down the hall.

Each step felt measured, almost ceremonial, as if the house itself held its breath alongside me.

The smell grew stronger, more concentrated, curling around the corners of the hallway like smoke tendrils reaching for me, guiding me.

And then, as I reached the kitchen door, I saw it.

The door was slightly ajar, the warm light from inside spilling into the dim hallway, cutting through the shadows like a knife.

There was movement beyond the threshold.

I stepped in quietly, careful not to announce my presence.

And then I froze.

The owner of the place, tall, graceful, and unsettlingly calm, stood over the counter.

Her movements were deliberate, almost hypnotic.

She was pouring liquor into eight glasses, the golden liquid catching the light and shimmering slightly as it settled into each cup, like liquid sunlight trapped in crystal.

Every motion was precise, measured, and there was an almost ritualistic beauty to the act.

My mind instantly connected the dots.

There had to be something in those drinks.

Some kind of drug, some trick.

This wasn't normal.

This wasn't hospitality.

Whatever she was doing, it carried danger in its most refined form.

Her head turned slowly, deliberately, and her eyes locked onto mine.

They sparkled, not with warmth, but with a sharp, predatory gleam that made my skin crawl and my pulse quicken.

She smiled then, faintly, a teasing, almost mocking smile, and without hesitation, she picked up one of the glasses and rushed toward me.

"Want to taste my fine crafted liquor, young man?" she asked, her voice smooth, almost silk-like, but with an undercurrent of something dangerous, something that made the air around her feel charged.

She shoved the cup right into my face.

It was clear she expected no refusal, that no hesitation would be tolerated.

The glass felt impossibly heavy, the liquid inside catching the light again, shimmering like it had a life of its own.

I caught the cup, my mind racing, heart hammering in my chest.

I need to act this through, I thought, every muscle in my body taut with tension.

I cleared my throat, forcing calm into my voice, forcing logic to override instinct.

"Your liquor smells different from the others," I said slowly, carefully, deliberately.

"Can you bring a cup to my room? I want to taste it properly."

For a long moment, she stared at me, one eyebrow arched in a perfect curve of suspicion and amusement.

Then, a soft, musical chuckle escaped her, light and airy, but with a weight to it, as if she were amused not just by my words but by my audacity.

"It's my first time a customer asks me this," she said, her voice lilting, playful.

"But I don't see why not."

Without another word, she followed me upstairs, holding the bottle carefully along with two glasses.

Every step she took was precise, balanced, almost like a dance, the faint click of her shoes against the wooden stairs punctuating the tension between us.

When we entered my room, she set everything down on the edge of the bed, sliding the glasses toward us, her fingers brushing the fabric just slightly, leaving a trail of warmth.

We both sat on the edge, the bottle positioned between us like a line neither of us dared to cross.

She tilted her head slightly, giving me a quick, assessing glance, her eyes sharp, calculating, and yet playful.

"How about we drink first?" she suggested, the words gentle but deliberate, a challenge wrapped in civility.

I nodded, reaching for the glass.

My fingers brushed the rim, the cool touch sending a shiver up my spine.

Just as I was about to put my lips to it, I acted, letting instinct override caution.

I winked with my right eye, a small, almost imperceptible signal, and then threw the glass at her face.

Her reaction was instant.

Faster than I could track, she smiled, raising her hand.

A shimmering, translucent barrier erupted in front of her, stopping the wine in midair.

The liquid splashed harmlessly against the invisible wall, droplets scattering in slow arcs, glinting in the light.

Then, almost in one fluid motion, she stood up and expanded the barrier, surrounding her body completely.

It shimmered and pulsed like liquid glass, a protective cocoon that seemed to absorb every particle of threat in the room.

She crossed her arms, tilting her head just slightly, and looked at me.

Calm.

Collected.

Untouchable.

"Finished now?" she asked, her voice even, almost serene, but with that same edge of amusement.

I couldn't resist.

"Did you see that coming? And how?"

She smirked, tilting her head with a precision that seemed almost choreographed.

"You watched my hands, not my face," she said, her tone teasing yet firm.

"That told me enough…"

I tilted my head, curiosity sharpening.

"There's something more?"

Her finger moved, deliberate, pointing toward the closet in my room.

"I could hear all your friends breathing," she said, her voice dropping slightly, serious now.

The playfulness was gone, replaced by a razor-sharp edge that made my chest tighten.

I looked across the room, and slowly, as if emerging from the shadows themselves, my friends stepped forward.

One by one, they positioned themselves strategically, surrounding her.

Their movements were quiet, precise, every one of them taking a stance that signaled readiness, precision, and lethal intent.

"So what? Don't you see we outnumber you!" Aria shouted, pulling her sword into a ready stance, the metal catching the light with a sharp, threatening gleam.

The woman smirked, undeterred by the obvious disadvantage.

She reached into her pocket, and my eyes narrowed.

Whatever she was planning, she wasn't afraid.

Not even slightly.

"Going to try that now?" I asked cautiously, tension coiling in my stomach like a spring.

She tilted her head back, letting out a low, resonant laugh that made the hairs on my arms stand up.

"You think numbers matter?" she asked, her voice playful, almost mocking, yet under it lingered an unmistakable confidence, the kind that could bend probability in her favor.

Aria tightened her grip on her sword, the polished metal biting lightly into her palm.

"We've got her surrounded. She can't get out."

"That's cute," the woman said finally, pulling something from her pocket.

Her eyes flicked to mine briefly, sharp and calculating, sizing me up, measuring, predicting.

Then, without a moment's hesitation, she flicked her wrist.

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