The clinic's hallways were colder than usual that night.
The walls, usually sterile white, seemed to close in with a shade of grey as Dr. Frederick walked through them. His shoes echoed sharply with each step, reverberating like a clock ticking toward something inevitable.
He was no longer smiling.
He hadn't smiled since Aria.
His newest fixation.
His worst mistake.
His most thrilling obsession.
> "You don't get to win," he muttered to himself, turning into Room 7 — his most private chamber, separate from the surveillance system, soundproof, sealed tight.
He opened a drawer and pulled out a small glass vial.
Inside, a clear liquid shimmered under the light.
A powerful sedative. Quick. Smooth. Effective.
Tonight, she returns.
And when she does, everything ends.
---
Earlier that day, Aria had received a sleek envelope at her apartment door.
Inside, a note written in Frederick's handwriting — that elegant cursive of a man used to faking sincerity:
> "Aria,
You left something behind.
Room 7. 9PM.
Come alone."
She stared at the note, then folded it neatly and tucked it into her coat pocket.
He wanted to trap her.
Good.
Let him believe he was in control.
She'd wear her prettiest smile… and her sharpest heels.
But in her purse?
A voice recorder.
A hidden blade.
A vial of her own.
---
Aria stepped through the side door of the clinic like a ghost in the dark.
She wore black — soft velvet against her skin, heels that whispered with each step.
The lights inside Room 7 were dimmed, casting long shadows across the medical table and the surrounding drawers.
Frederick was already there, waiting.
He stood by the cabinet, dressed in black scrubs, his hair slightly tousled, as if he'd been pacing.
When he looked at her, the heat in his gaze could have burned through steel.
"Aria," he said, voice low. "I was starting to think you wouldn't come."
She tilted her head, her smile sharp as glass. "You know I can't resist unfinished business."
He stepped forward, the distance between them vanishing too quickly.
"Did you come for your files?" he asked, circling her slowly. "Or for something else?"
"I'm not here to play guessing games," she said coolly.
"But I am." His fingers brushed her lower back — a dangerous touch, lingering too long. "Do you know how many women walked into this room thinking they were in charge?"
She didn't flinch.
"I'm not most women."
He chuckled darkly. "No. You're not."
His hand slid to the counter behind her, where he'd placed a glass of water.
"Drink?" he offered, watching her eyes.
She didn't touch it. "Ladies first," she said, smiling.
He stared at her for a beat longer than necessary… then took a sip.
Her heart skipped — he didn't drug the water. Which meant… he planned something else.
Silence hung between them like a storm before lightning.
Frederick stepped closer, until their bodies were nearly touching.
"You're dangerous," he said softly, his voice suddenly velvet. "I like that."
"And you're broken," she whispered. "I don't."
But she didn't step away.
He leaned down, his breath brushing her ear. "You don't hate me like you pretend."
"You're right," she whispered. "I don't pretend."
She kissed him — hard, sudden, like a dare.
He grabbed her waist, pulling her into him, mouth devouring hers.
But in that moment, their lips clashing and hands roaming, Aria slid the voice recorder under the table.
Click.
Recording started.
This was the proof she needed.
He was distracted, aroused, reckless.
Just as she planned.
As he leaned her back against the counter, she whispered, "You really think this will end with me beneath you?"
Frederick smirked. "That's the only way it ends."
She reached into her pocket. "Wrong."
Before he could respond, she stabbed the small syringe into his thigh.
He staggered back, eyes widening. "What—what the hell—"
"Relax," she said. "It's not lethal. Just enough to remind you how it feels to lose control."
He collapsed to his knees, groaning.
She crouched beside him, brushing his cheek gently. "I wanted to know how far you'd go. Now I know."
His voice was hoarse. "You can't beat me, Aria. I built this game."
She leaned close, her lips brushing his ear.
"Then I'll burn the board."
Dr. Frederick woke up on the cold floor of Room 7.
The lights above flickered faintly, casting a sterile glow over the ceiling tiles as his vision adjusted. His limbs felt like lead, his mouth dry and numb. The aftermath of the sedative was cruel — not strong enough to knock him out for long, but just potent enough to paralyze his pride.
And she was gone.
Aria.
The woman he thought he could conquer.
She had flipped the script on him — perfectly.
He sat up slowly, fingers trembling as he reached for the nearby medical cart and hauled himself to his feet. A deep growl crawled from his throat as he examined the space — empty. But his eyes caught something small near the edge of the counter.
A red ribbon.
Her ribbon.
Left on purpose.
Like a warning.
Or a challenge.
Frederick clenched his jaw, gripping the ribbon in his fist until his knuckles whitened. "So this is how you want to play."
Rain lashed violently against his windshield as he drove, the tires hissing over wet asphalt.
Inside the car, silence reigned.
But in his mind — chaos bloomed.
Memories of Aria's lips on his, her breath on his skin, and then… the cold sting of betrayal. Her plan had been perfect. Too perfect.
"She came prepared," he muttered. "That wasn't a spontaneous act."
She had baited him.
But for what? Revenge? Justice?
Or something more twisted?
His mind shifted through his past clients. Had he wronged someone she loved? Did she belong to one of the broken women who'd once walked into his chamber and never left the same?
He would find out.
And he'd flip the game again.
No one humiliated Dr. Frederick Morgan and walked away unscarred.
Meanwhile, across town, Aria sat in her dimly lit apartment, legs crossed, laptop open before her.
She plugged in the voice recorder and transferred the audio — every breath, every calculated word, every touch — into a hidden folder labeled: Insurance_001.
She leaned back in her chair, staring at the waveform dancing across her screen.
> "You really think this will end with me beneath you?"
> "That's the only way it ends."
> Click.
Her lips curled into a soft smile.
It wasn't about the audio. Not really.
It was about showing him — and the world — that he wasn't invincible.
But Aria knew Frederick wouldn't back down. He was too arrogant. Too dominant. Too obsessed with being in control.
And that's why she had to move faster.
She clicked a second folder: Victim Profiles.
Photographs, notes, journals… six women. All past patients. All vanished after seeing Frederick.
All linked to Room 7.
And one of them — Natalie — was her sister.
Frederick had smiled at Natalie the same way he had smiled at her.
Until Natalie disappeared three years ago.
Back in his study, Frederick poured himself a glass of whiskey, staring at the red ribbon on his desk.
His fingers danced across the edge, caressing the silk as if it were still warm from her skin.
> "You're dangerous," he had told her.
And she was.
But what he hadn't told her — was that so was he.
Very dangerous.
He moved to his filing cabinet, pulling open a hidden drawer.
Inside: photographs. Dozens of them. All of them women. All of them patients.
Smiling. Crying. Naked. Bound.
And one of them… was Aria.
A photo he had taken the first day she walked into his clinic, long before he ever touched her.
He had felt it then — a shift in the air, a storm he couldn't explain.
And now… the storm had arrived.
But storms could be tamed.
He smiled.
"She thinks she's in control now," he whispered to himself. "But that's exactly when I strike."
---
The next day, Aria received a message on her phone.
No name.
Just a single line:
> "The others never fought back. That's what made them weak. You, on the other hand… you fascinate me."
No number to trace.
No way to block it.
But she knew who sent it.
Frederick.
And with that one message, she realized something chilling — he didn't plan to retreat.
He planned to escalate.
This wasn't a game anymore.
This was war.