Diabolic
Miley May, Will Powers Pic(s)
The air itself seemed to hum with a new, intoxicating energy, a subtle vibration that prickled agat her skin like the lightest touch of a thousand unseen fingers. She took a hesitant step forward, the smooth, cool floor a stark contrast to the sudden warmth blooming deep within her core. Every detail of the room was impossibly sharp, from the intricate grain of the dark wood panels to the way the low, amber light pooled in the curves of a solitary velvet chaise. A scent, both foreign and familiar like night-blooming jasmine and clean musk, wrapped around her, coaxing a slow, deep breath into her lungs. Her own heartbeat was a heavy, rhythmic drum in her ears, a private cadence that seemed to sync with the room’s latent pulse. She let her fingertips trail along the wall, the surface yielding slightly as if alive, sending a shiver of pure anticipation straight down her spine. The silence was not empty but expectant, a canvas waiting for the first brushstroke of sound, of movement, of shared breath. She could almost feel a presence, not yet seen but deeply felt, an awareness that watched and waited with an intensity that made her skin flush. This was no mere room; it was a threshold, and with her next exhale, she felt the delicious, terrifying unraveling of everything she had been before.
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