As Irene prepared for bed, she couldn't shake the unsettling silence from Jericho earlier. He'd been eerily quiet, his usual sharpness dulled, and for a fleeting moment, she considered knocking on his door to check on him. But something stopped her—a mix of exhaustion and the fear of opening another door she wasn't ready to face.

She sank into her soft mattress, the familiar scent of her sheets offering little comfort. Staring at the ceiling, her mind raced. Madeline's cryptic words echoed like a haunting melody: "There's more to come, Irene. For you... and your friends."

Her chest tightened as memories of her argument with her mother resurfaced, the sharpness of her mother's words cutting through her thoughts. But it wasn't just that. Phoebe lingered in her mind too—her bruised, bloodied face, the anger and hurt in her eyes. Irene's guilt gnawed at her, an unwelcome companion in the stillness of the night.

The weight of it all pressed down on her, heavy and relentless, but finally, her mind began to surrender. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she slipped into the uneasy embrace of sleep, the words, the faces, and the emotions all swirling together in the darkness of her dreams.

Irene's eyes fluttered open, and immediately, something felt wrong. Her surroundings were no longer the comfort of her bedroom but a void—a vast, black abyss that stretched endlessly. Strangely, the darkness didn't frighten her; instead, it wrapped around her like a heavy blanket, offering a sense of safety she couldn't understand. Yet, the tranquility was short-lived.

Across from her, a wooden door stood tall, its rich brown surface marred with strange silver symbols that shimmered faintly in the void. Compelled by curiosity, Irene stepped closer, her fingers brushing over the intricate carvings. The moment her fingertips made contact, muffled voices began murmuring from behind the door, too faint to discern yet undeniably present.

Hesitating, she reached for the doorknob. Her heart thudded in her chest, uncertainty gnawing at her, but some unseen force urged her forward. The knob turned, and the abyss began to shift.

The darkness dissolved into an opulent chamber, vast and eerily silent. At the room's center stood a magnificent throne, its frame a masterpiece of swirling gold and emeralds. Despite its beauty, the scene unfolding in front of it was anything but. A young boy, no older than sixteen, writhed on the cold marble floor. His face contorted in agony, his screams piercing through the air.

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Hovering above him was a woman—breathtakingly beautiful, yet terrifyingly cold. Her dark waves of hair cascaded over her shoulders like a waterfall of ink, her piercing green eyes gleaming with cruel determination. She wore a flowing black dress that hugged her figure, with silver embroidery dancing along the fabric like living veins. Her beauty was mesmerizing, but there was a chilling authority about her, one that froze Irene in place.

The woman leaned over the boy, carving a symbol into his chest with deliberate precision. Irene recognized it instantly—it was the same symbol etched onto the door. The boy's cries grew louder as the woman's voice filled the air, calm yet commanding, chanting words in a language Irene didn't understand.

Every fiber of Irene's being screamed for her to run, but she couldn't move. Her feet felt rooted to the ground, as if the room itself wouldn't let her leave. She could only watch, horrified, as the woman's hand moved methodically, her face betraying no emotion except an almost clinical satisfaction.

As Irene's gaze darted around the room, her stomach churned. In the shadows, a tall man stood watching the grotesque scene unfold. He was unnaturally pale, his skin nearly translucent, and his eyes glowed with a sickly red hue. His presence felt wrong—so wrong it made Irene's chest tighten and her stomach twist. Everything about him screamed danger, his aura so unsettling that she fought the urge to retch.

The woman straightened, her gaze flickering briefly in Irene's direction as if she sensed her presence. For a fleeting moment, their eyes met, and Irene's breath caught in her throat. "Alister," the woman said, her voice cold and laced with malice. She tilted her head, a sly smirk tugging at her lips. "It seems we have a watcher."

Irene's heart stopped. Her body stiffened, panic blooming in her chest.

"Who?" the man replied, his tone sharp and commanding. Irene assumed he must be Alister.

"I don't know," the woman said, her emerald eyes gleaming with intrigue. "But I can see her power. She has... so much of it."

Alister's head turned sharply, his piercing red eyes scanning the void. For a terrifying moment, it felt as though his gaze locked directly onto Irene. Could he actually see her? Irene's breath quickened. She stumbled back, her eyes darting around, desperate to find the door she had come through. Her hands fumbled against the dark air, but it was gone—vanished into the abyss.