Chapter Twenty-Two #2
Maybe I should just go to The Scarlet Fox. Just to see if he’s still there, if the magic of that place can still work its spell on my shattered heart. Just to speak to him, even if only for a moment— that’s if he’s there at all. And that’s a big if, the rational part of my mind insists.
This is crazy!
It’s ridiculous that I’m even thinking about this. It just shows how desperate I am, how far I’ve fallen from the composed woman I used to be.
But desperation doesn’t always lead to bad decisions, does it? Sometimes it leads to exactly where you need to be.
Then again, it’s not like I can lose anything.
I’m going crazy sitting alone in my mom’s apartment anyway, surrounded by the ghosts of her fading life and the echoes of my own failures.
The silence here is suffocating, pressing against my eardrums until I want to scream just to hear something other than the whisper of my own breathing.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” I breathe the words into the silence of the apartment.
Nothing, that’s what.
The worst that can happen is that I get out, have a change of atmosphere, and clear my head. Maybe the Masked Guy won’t be there, maybe the magic will be gone, but at least I’ll have tried. At least I’ll have reached for something instead of just lying here, drowning in my own misery.
I sit up abruptly, surprising myself with how determined I feel.
The decision takes shape in my chest like ice forming on a winter window— clear, solid, irreversible.
It’s reckless, impulsive, probably stupid, but I need the distraction.
If I stay here, I’ll drown in my thoughts.
I’ll spiral down into the darkness that’s been calling my name ever since Jason told me the truth about Osip.
I’ll become one of those people who suffocates under the weight of their own tragedy.
Just for tonight, I need to escape. Even if it’s just for a little while, even if it changes nothing, even if I come home more broken than when I left.
The shower runs lukewarm— Mom’s ancient water heater giving up the fight just like everything else in this building— but it washes away the hospital smell that had clung to my skin like grief made manifest. I let the water run over my face, mixing with the tears I can’t seem to stop, until I can’t tell where sorrow ends and simple cleansing begins.
I change into something simple but presentable— a dark dress that doesn’t require much thought, black tights that hide how pale my legs have become, a coat that’s seen better days but still maintains some dignity.
These are the clothes of a woman going through the motions of living, and maybe that’s enough for tonight.
My reflection in the hallway mirror startles me. I look older, worn thin like fabric that’s been washed too many times. My eyes are shadowed with exhaustion and grief, my cheekbones more prominent than they should be. When did I stop eating properly? When did I stop taking care of myself?
I need to get back on track… for the baby, if nothing else.
But there’s something else in my reflection too— a flicker of determination that reminds me of the woman I used to be. The woman who could make decisions and follow through with them. The woman who didn’t let tragedy define every moment of her existence.
I pick up my phone and book an Uber, my fingers surprisingly steady as I type in the address.
The app confirms the driver is fifteen minutes away, and I use the time to sit quietly with my decision.
No second-guessing, no rational arguments about why this is a terrible idea.
Sometimes the heart knows what it needs even when the mind can’t understand the reasoning.
About half an hour later, I step into The Scarlet Fox, and the familiar atmosphere washes over me like stepping into a warm bath after standing in the cold.
The scent hits me first— aged leather and expensive whiskey, sandalwood and something undefinable that speaks of secrets and possibilities.
The lighting is exactly as I remember it, dim enough to hide imperfections but warm enough to feel welcoming.
Jack, the barman, looks up from polishing a glass, his face lighting up with genuine recognition. He hasn’t changed a bit in the months since I’ve been here— the same engaging smile, the same friendly eyes, almost as if he’s been expecting me.
“Look who it is! Long time no see,” he says, setting down the glass and leaning forward slightly. There’s warmth in his voice, the kind reserved for regulars who are remembered fondly.
Get a grip.
He’s a pro.
Probably does the same for everyone.
“Hey,” I reply, managing a faint smile that feels strange on my face.
It’s been so long since I’ve had reason to smile that the muscles feel rusty, unpracticed.
Being back here feels surreal, like walking into a time capsule from my old life.
The life where my biggest worry was a failing relationship with Stanley, not murder and betrayal and impossible pregnancies.
I take a breath, steeling myself for potential disappointment, and muster the courage to ask the question that brought me here: “Do you still do the masked nights?”
Jack’s grin widens, and for the first time in weeks, something like hope unfurls in my chest. “You’re in luck, lady. Tonight’s the night.”
The familiar ritual feels like muscle memory— taking the silk robe from Jack’s practiced hands, accepting the plush towel and the elegant mask that will transform me from Ilona Katona Shiradze, tragic daughter and broken woman, into simply someone seeking connection in the shadows.
I head up to Room Five, my feet finding the path without conscious direction. The stairs creak under my weight with sounds I remember, each step taking me further from the harsh reality of hospital rooms and dying mothers and murdered fathers.
I glance around the room, breathing in its familiar scent.
The dim, brooding atmosphere embraces me like an old friend, and the memories from a year ago with TMG come flooding back.
Not just the physical connection— though that had been intoxicating— but the emotional sanctuary he’d provided.
The way he’d listened without trying to fix anything, understood without demanding explanations.
I sink into the plush armchair near the corner, letting my thoughts swirl with everything wrong in my life. But somehow, being here makes it feel manageable. Not solved, not fixed, but contained within walls that have seen countless secrets and survived them all.
Still, it feels nice to be here. Nicer than sitting alone in my mom’s flat, counting water stains and contemplating the brandy bottle.
There’s something about this room that makes me see things in a different light— not rose-colored glasses exactly, but a softer focus that doesn’t cut quite so deep.
Still clean from the shower back at Mom’s place, I quickly undress and slip into the robe, letting the soft silk slide against my skin. For a moment, I relax into the sensation, settling back against the deep armchair and closing my eyes as the atmosphere surrounds me.
It’s quiet in here. Peaceful. I’m sure the walls are sound-proofed, and I’m grateful for it now.
Because I’m tired. The exhaustion I’ve been fighting for days finally catches up with me.
I don’t mean to fall asleep, but the emotional weight I’ve been carrying feels lighter here, and my body finally allows itself to rest.
Just for a few minutes.
The thought takes root as the idea of sleep becomes irresistible. Just long enough to gather strength for whatever comes next.
And so, I sleep.
When I wake, my senses immediately alert me that something has changed. The quality of the silence is different, charged with a presence that wasn’t there before. My eyes snap open, adrenaline flooding my system as I realize I’m not alone in the room.
A man is sitting in the armchair opposite me, watching me with unnerving stillness. My heart skips, then thunders against my ribs as if it’s hoping to explode from its cage.
“Ilona.”
The voice chills my blood to ice water, every syllable dripping with a familiarity that makes my skin crawl. This isn’t The Masked Guy. This isn’t salvation or comfort or escape. This is something much worse.
Something very dangerous.