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“That’s not a solution. That’s just you getting what you want.”

“Exactly.” His mouth curved. “But it’s the only option you have that doesn’t end with you waking up in a locked room with a contract you don’t remember signing.”

“What happens to the people who sign those contracts?”

“They become part of the House.” He released me and stepped back. “Some of them perform. Some of them serve. Some of them just disappear into the walls and the floors and the spaces between performances. But they all stay. Forever.”

“You’re lying.”

“Am I?” He gestured toward the scaffolding above us. “See that rope hanging from the third beam? A man named Marcus signed a contract three years ago because he wanted to know what it felt like to be wanted. The House gave him exactly what he asked for. Now he hangs there every night, suspended in front of an audience, while guests pay to touch him and tell him all the things he wants to hear. He can’t speak. Can’t move. Can’t even close his eyes. But he’s wanted. Just like he asked.”

Nausea rolled through my stomach. “That’s sick.”

“That’s the House.” Malachi’s voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “It gives people exactly what they ask for and takes everything they didn’t think to protect. Marcus wanted to be wanted. He didn’t specify who, for how long, or under what conditions. So the House decided for him.”

“And you helped.”

“I did.” No shame in his voice. No regret. “I’m the one who convinced him to sign. I told him the House could give him what he needed. And I’m the one who watched him hang there the first night and realized he’d never come down.”

“You’re a monster.”

“Call me whatever you want.” He moved closer again, backing me up against the brick wall. “Monsters don’t give you a choice. I’m giving you one. Perform with me, and I’ll make sure the House doesn’t take you before I’m finished with you. Refuse, and I’ll let it do whatever it wants.”

“That’s not a choice. That’s extortion.”

“There are no safe words for curiosity, sweetheart. You opened the door.” His hand braced against the wall beside my head. “But decide fast. Because the House is getting impatient, and I’m the only thing standing between you and a contract you’ll never escape.”

Overhead, the lights flickered once, twice, then the entire backstage area went dark, except for a single red bulb that flashed above a door I hadn’t noticed before. A low, rhythmic alarm sounded, and I heard fast, panicked footsteps somewhere above us.

Malachi went completely still.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“The red door.” His voice was tight. “Someone opened it from below.”

“Dahlia?”

“Maybe.” He grabbed my wrist and pulled me away from the wall. “Or something worse.”

The alarm climbed louder. Footsteps pounded closer. And somewhere below us, beneath the stage, beneath the galleries, beneath every performance, every mask, and every lie the guests told themselves about why they’d come here, I heard a scream that sounded exactly like my sister’s voice.

I tried to pull toward the sound, but Malachi’s grip tightened, dragging me the other way.

“Let go,” I said.

“No.”

“That’s Dahlia⁠—”

“That’s someone screaming. Could be anyone down there.” He pulled me toward the exit, his hand wrapped around my wrist hard enough to bruise. “And if the House is breaching the red door, we need to get you out of here before it decides to take you now instead of waiting.”

“I’m not leaving her.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

I dug my heels in and twisted against his hold. “The hell I don’t.”

The alarm’s pitch climbed higher, and the walls around us groaned as if something massive shifted behind the brick. Overhead, the spotlight flickered and died. Only the pulsing red bulb and the faint glow bleeding through the cracks in the door Malachi had been dragging me toward remained.