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 the door. Behind you, the door slams shut with a sharp crack—you flinch, instinctively turning toward the sound, only to see a seamless expanse of wood with no handle on this side.

The sun peeks out from behind the clouds for a brief moment, and a narrow beam of light slips through a gap in the heavy curtains, sliding across the dusty parquet floor—it gives you just enough clarity to see exactly what has just crawled 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 moist, covered in suckers, crawls slowly down 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.

From the far, dark corner where the light barely reaches, a young man emerges. 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 sudden, palpable squeeze, a reminder of who holds the power here.

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