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Adira Allure, Lucas Frost Pic(s)
The frantic rhythm of her own pulse hammered in her ears, a stark counterpoint to the heavy silence that had fallen over the grand, empty house. A single bead of sweat traced a slow, deliberate path down the delicate curve of her spine, catching for a moment on the damp fabric of her uniform where it clung to the small of her back. The air, thick with the scent of lemon polish and her own rising fear, felt heavy in her lungs with each shallow, panicked breath. From the shadowed archway of the main hall, a floorboard groaned under an unseen weight, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the tense stillness. Her fingers, still clutching the soft, damp dusting cloth, trembled agat her thigh, the simple cotton feeling suddenly flimsy and useless. She could almost feel the predatory gaze moving over her, a phantom pressure mapping the shape of her body through the thin, starched dress. The fading evening light streaming through the tall windows painted long, distorted shadows that seemed to slither across the polished marble floor towards her. A sharp, metallic scent, foreign and alarming, suddenly cut through the familiar smells of cleaning, making the fine hairs on her arms stand erect. Every tinct screamed to run, but her feet felt rooted to the spot, a captive audience to the approaching, silent threat.
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