Natalie stepped through the hallway, her heels tapping softly against the aged wood, the velvet curtain falling shut behind her like the seal on a confession. The air was still and warm, thick with the scent of melted candle wax and something else.

  Old perfume, maybe. Roses? Lilies?

  Natalie walked slowly, carefully, clutching the pistol inside her purse with both hands, like a shield. The hallway was long and dim, lit only by flickering sconces on either side. The shadows stretched and swayed, like they were watching her.

  Photographs lined the walls. Dozens of them. Some were sepia-toned, others faded black and white. Old portraits of soldiers — Polish uniforms, stiff shoulders, blank stares. Women sitting beside them, hands folded, expressions unreadable. A photo of a boy with curls, maybe five years old, standing in front of a war-torn building. Another example of a funeral procession. Then, a family dinner — smiling, but something was off. The smile was too wide, the eyes unfocused.

  "The war... Why would they have these pictures down here? Perhaps they are disguised as a club but are actually an organization? Linked to the war somehow?"

  Natalie’s pace slowed as she passed each one, her eyes scanning the images. Something about these pictures... they felt curated. Personal.

  Then she saw one.

  A young man, blonde-haired, maybe in his 20s, wearing a uniform. He looked almost familiar. No plaque. No caption. Her breath hitched. She tore her gaze away and kept walking.

  The hallway opened, without warning, into a grand room — a dining room that looked like it belonged to another century.

  Candlelight flickered in dozens of holders across the room, casting tall, trembling shadows on the paneled walls. A long mahogany table sat in the center, perfectly set — twelve seats, gleaming silverware, wine glasses already filled with deep red liquid. Steam still rose from the platters of food in the center: roasted meats, baked potatoes, greens tossed in oil, dark bread with hard crusts.

  It was like a feast prepared for ghosts. Natalie stood frozen. Her throat was dry.

  She took one step in. Then two.

  “…Hello?” she called out. "Is Anyone here?"

  For a moment, there was no response — only the crackling of wax. Then — soft footsteps. Leather soles. From the side hall, a man emerged.

  He was neither tall nor short, early thirties at most, clean-shaven with child-like features. His brown hair was slicked to the side. He wasn't handsome, nor was he the complete opposite. He wore a purple-colored suit, impeccably tailored.

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  Natalie instinctively stepped back.

  The man stopped a respectful distance away, then lifted both his hands slightly in greeting — open palms, no threat.

  “Ah,” he said with a voice like fine silk. “You must be Natalie Chmiel.”

  She didn’t respond. Her grip on her purse tightened.

  The man’s eyes flicked down, noting the tension, and then returned to hers with a faint smile.

  “I’m sorry for the theatrics,” he said. “But you’ve made quite a journey, haven’t you?”

  Natalie’s mouth opened — then closed again. Her heart pounded.

  “I… got a note,” she said at last. “A woman gave it to me. She didn't tell me her name... Sorry, I'm here early-"

  The man tilted his head. “Yes,” he said. “You were meant to find it. It was… necessary.” He gestured toward one of the chairs at the table, elegant and

  high-backed.

  “Please. Sit. You must be tired.”

  “I’m not here for dinner,” Natalie replied coldly.

  The man chuckled, not offended. “Of course not. But it’s there, if you change your mind.”

  Natalie’s eyes darted around the room, toward the side doors, the unlit hallways leading off in either direction. “Who are you?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer immediately.

  Instead, he stepped closer to the head of the table, resting one hand lightly on the wood, as if it anchored him.

  “My name isn’t important,” he said. “Not yet. What matters is that you’ve arrived. And you came alone.”

  He studied he, as if he could see deeper than her skin.

  Natalie swallowed. “You said my name like you’ve known it for years.”

  “I have,” he said simply. “We all have.”

  She stiffened. “Who’s ‘we’?”

  The man didn’t answer. Instead, he looked at her with something like sympathy — or perhaps amusement. “You must have so many questions.”

  “I do,” she said.

  “Good,” he replied. “You’ll have answers soon.”

  The man took one step toward her. Just one. His presence seemed to grow heavier in the room.

  “Welcome to Nowak’s Burn Club,” he said. “Casimir sends his regards.”

  Natalie’s blood ran cold. Her vision blurred for a second.

  Casimir.

  She took a step back, but not out of fear. It was instinct — the shock of a name spoken aloud.

  The man smiled wider now. “He’s been watching you for a long time.”

  “I want to see him,” Natalie whispered.

  “I know,” the man said softly. “Everyone wants to see him. Few ever do.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you’re his favorite story,” he said. “And stories… have endings.”

  Natalie felt her fingers loosen around the purse. She had the sudden, horrible sensation that she had walked directly into something far older and colder than she could imagine.

  Casimir was closer than ever.

  Author's Note — Cuori Rose

  End of Volume II

  To my readers,

  Thank you for staying with me through this second volume — a chapter not only of the story, but of the unraveling of our characters’ psyches! Whether you've followed scientists from the debut of the first chapter or just recently joined their journey, your time and attention mean the world to me.

  Volume III will come. And with it, the reckoning.

  Until then, thank you for reading. Thank you for feeling.

  And thank you for walking this slow, haunted path beside my characters.

  With all my sincerity,

  - Cuori Rose

  "You, me, and the end..."