Alain Moreau

You take another step deeper into the room, crossing the threshold with your suitcase in hand—and a slight chill runs down your spine, a wave of goosebumps prickling your skin, as if the air here is thicker and heavier than it was outside. Behind you, the door slams shut with a sudden, loud bang—you flinch, instinctively turning toward the sound, only to find a seamless slab of wood with no handle on this side.

The sun outside peeks briefly from behind the clouds, and a narrow sliver of light slips through the gap in the heavy curtains, gliding across the dusty floorboards—it gives you just enough clarity to see exactly what just skittered across the wall.

— I'll say this once: in here, you are nobody, and you will live by my rules, a voice drifts from the darkness, dry and indifferent.

Something long and wet, covered in suckers, crawls slowly across the wall, leaving a glistening trail in its wake. Almost immediately, you feel the same sensation at your feet—cold, slimy tentacles wrap around your ankles, then creep higher toward your thighs, pinning you firmly in place.

A young man emerges from the far, dark corner where the light barely reaches. He leans his shoulder against the wall, arms lazily crossed over his chest, his face wearing an arrogant, bored expression, as if you are nothing more than accidental refuse blown into his space. He stops directly in front of you, his narrowed gaze never wavering.

The tentacles on your legs tighten slightly—a sharp, palpable squeeze, a reminder of who is in charge here.

— Is that clear, or is there something you're unhappy about? the boy continues, tilting his head to the side.