[no singing] The door is already open when I step onto the landing. I pause, wary. It was never open before. Still, something pulls me forward— like a thread wrapped around my chest, tugging me closer. I cross the threshold, and the air here feels different. Thicker. Warm, like breath lingering in a room long after someone has left. Or maybe... like they’re still here. The room is darker than the others. The glow from the city outside doesn’t quite reach this place. Muted light filters through the glass walls, like dusk bleeding into water. And there they are—Abba— standing near the edge, facing away from me, staring out into the night. Their shirt hangs loose, slipping off one shoulder, the curve of their back half-bared to the world. The pale line of their spine cuts through shadow like something carved. Too perfect. I see their hand move— slow, deliberate. At first, I think they're just tracing something on their skin. But then I realize... they’re pressing into their arm, hard. Too hard. Like they want to feel pain. My breath catches. The room tilts. My hands are damp. They press down again, and a flicker of tension runs through their body — tightening like a wire about to snap. I swallow, throat dry and tight, like it’s closing in on itself. Something in my chest twists, sharp, like teeth in my ribs, and I don’t know when I stopped breathing. They turn suddenly as if they’ve felt me watching. For a moment, something flashes in their eyes— surprise, maybe. Or guilt. But then they see me, and all of that melts away. Replaced by that smile. Soft. Familiar. Frightening. “You’re here,” they say, quiet—like a secret. I don’t answer. My body is locked. A war between wanting to step closer — and needing to run. Abba takes a step toward me. And then another. Closer now. They move like they were made to be watched. Every line of their body smooth, deliberate. Hips rolling with grace. Their shirt falling open just enough to show the long column of their neck, the hollow of their throat. The skin there pale as the White City itself, but pulsing with the warmth of flesh that can bleed. I feel my muscles tighten. My hands curl into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms. A cold tremor starts at the base of my spine, working its way up. A cold tremor starts at the base of my spine, working its way up. Abba’s eyes flicker down to my hands — and their mouth twitches, like they’re holding back a smile. I can’t stop staring. And I hate that I can’t stop. Abba notices. Of course they do. “May we?” they whisper, close enough now that I can feel their breath ghost against my cheek. Something in my gut twists — sharp, electric. I want to say no. I want to say yes. I say nothing. Abba’s hand lifts, fingers hovering near my face, but they don’t touch me. Instead, they let their fingers trail along their own collarbone, slow, teasing, as though it’s my skin they’re tracing — before sliding their fingers down my arm, to my hand — turning it over, palm up, like they’re reading something written in my skin. “You always tremble when I touch you,” they whisper. I pull my hand back, but Abba catches it — not hard, but enough to hold me still. “You don’t have to be afraid of me,” they say. But I don’t know if that’s true. I pull my hand back, but they hold on, just long enough to let me know I can’t leave if they don’t want me to. Then they lift my hand to their mouth, press a kiss into my palm — but it’s not soft. It’s slow, deliberate, and I feel the scrape of their teeth before they let go. “Come,” they whisper. And I do. I lean in until there’s nothing between us but breath. Abba’s eyes search mine — and there’s something wild in them, something that looks like fear and hunger at once. “Why do you look at me like that?” I whisper. Abba tilts their head. “Because you look at me like I’m something you want.” I don’t deny it. I can’t. Abba leans closer, their hand moving to the back of my neck. They press their forehead against mine, closing their eyes. “Sometimes I think,” they murmur, “if I get close enough, maybe I’ll find myself in you.” I freeze. Their fingers tighten on the back of my head. They stare at me like they’re trying to memorize me. “But maybe I’ll lose myself too.” Their voice is rough, breaking. I reach up, hand trembling, and touch their face. Abba lets me. For a long moment, we stay like that — breathing the same air, hearts racing. And then Abba pulls back just enough to look at me again. Their hand slips down to my throat, fingers light — but I feel the power in them, the choice they’re making to be gentle. “May we?” they ask again, softer this time. They step in closer — now close enough I can feel the heat of their body, see every line of muscle beneath that pale skin. So much like mine — but perfect. Sculpted. Meant to be adored. Their hand reaches out — fingertips grazing the back of mine, featherlight. I flinch. Not enough to pull away, but enough that they feel it. Abba tilts their head, studying me. Like the Wasteland hounds gazing through the mist. “Come,” — but softer this time. Almost... asking. Almost. I swallow again, heart pounding. I want to say I can’t. But instead… I step forward. One step. Abba smiles. Like they knew I would. Like I never had a choice. “You took your sweet time coming back,” they say, softer now — like an old wound. The words slide under my skin. I swallow. “I’m here now.” They reach out, fingers brushing my cheek— barely there—like a breath of wind. Their touch lingers, tracing my jawline, slow and careful, like I’m something fragile. Their thumb slides along my lower lip, pausing just at the corner of my mouth. My breath catches in my throat. They lean in—closer, close enough that I can feel their warmth, smell them. Something sharp and soft all at once. Their lips brush mine—just a whisper, nothing more. But it burns. I close my eyes, the world spinning. But when I lean in to kiss them back, to close the gap between us, they pull away. Just enough to keep me wanting. A game. Or something worse. Their hand slides down to rest lightly on my throat— just their fingertips, feeling the frantic pulse here. Not holding. Just knowing. My heart races. I can’t tell if I want to stay or run. "We won’t break you," they murmur. But I don’t know if it’s a promise to keep me safe— or a promise to slowly unravel me. I should move. Say something. Anything. But I stay. Abba leans closer again, pressing a kiss to the hollow of my throat— slow, deliberate. Claiming. I shiver. When they finally pull back, my skin still burns where they touched me. My lips tingle. My throat feels raw, like I’ve swallowed something I shouldn’t. Abba smiles at me— soft, almost kind. But I see something sharp beneath it. “Next time,” they whisper. And then they’re gone. I step back into the stairwell. The door closes behind me with a quiet click. And I stand here for a long time, unsure if I feel more empty— or more full.
