Chapter 21
The dancers also wore the perilous, needle-lined heels. The infamous Glass Agony Heels. They were impossibly high, their transparent design showing rows of sharp needles laying in wait in the insoles’ nodules. They would be forcing the dancers to maintain their posture with exact precision. With every movement, the slightest error would send dozens of tiny needles piercing into the soles of their feet. Every placement of their toes, every shift of their weight was a potential trigger for punishment.
But only one of them would pay the ultimate price. And maybe Nadia would pay it as well.
Camelia had stepped in for Nadia, but the contract had made it clear: whoever faltered first would take their place in the coffin. Camelia was not just fighting for Nadia’s freedom - she was fighting for her own. If she lost, the abyss would claim her, and she would spend eternity in suffocating latex, never to be seen again.
The realization sat like iron in Camelia’s stomach.
The music began, slow and deliberate, the haunting melody dictating their rhythm. The duel had begun.
Elise moved, her body jerking into motion with a ferocity that sent a ripple through the audience. Her movements were wild, raw - powered by something beyond mere competition. She danced with hatred, with determination, her limbs snapping into place as if the sheer force of her will could override the suit’s punishing mechanisms.
The first sharp sting came when her right heel landed a fraction of a second too early. The needles within the shoe reacted instantly, pricking deep into the flesh of her arch. She shrieked but did not falter. Instead, she pushed harder, ignoring the biting pain as if it were nothing more than an inconvenience. Another misstep - this time, the ball of her left foot took the punishment, the needles sinking in sharply, sending a visible shudder through her body.
Elise’s eyes were wild. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her body slick with sweat beneath the latex. Yet she danced as if possessed, twisting and turning in time with the music. The patrons could see the nodules activating through the transparent suit, digging into her skin, yet she did not break. Her suffering only fueled her.
Her feet took the worst of it. The toes, the sensitive balls of her feet, the deep arches - each section punished her relentlessly. The high heels forced her weight forward, pressing the needle-lined insoles deeper with every step. But she did not stop. She had been cheated - first by Nadia’s mercy, then by the foot washing that had robbed her of her secret advantage. She focussed on one burning thought: she needed to destroy Nadia.
In contrast, Camelia’s movements were controlled, measured. She had spent her life perfecting balance, learning how to distribute weight, how to make every movement deliberate. This was not the kind of performance she was used to, but her training had conditioned her body for endurance.
The first needles struck the ball of her foot as she landed into a spin a second off with the music’s beat, her muscles tensing from the sudden sharpness. She bit her lip, exhaling slowly, absorbing the pain rather than reacting to it. A moment later, her arch was pricked as she shifted her weight too quickly, the sharp sensation slicing through her resolve. Unlike Elise, she did not scream - she internalized the pain, let it become a part of the dance rather than a hindrance.
Sweat began to build inside the latex, making the suit even more constricting. The transparent material allowed the audience to see every tense muscle, every reaction. The nodules pressed deep into her thighs, her calves, her lower back, activating in response to every miscalculated motion. But she endured.
Both dancers continued, the duel stretching into its first hour. For the first hour, not too much happened, both dancers were stable and skilled. Camelia barely had to face a needle while Elise occasionally cried out but she was not affected too much by it.
The music shifted - an eerie, melancholic waltz, slow but demanding in its precision. Each note dictated a step, a movement, an obligation to perfection. Camelia heard every beat like a command, her body responding instinctively, despite the pain coursing through her soles. The sharp pricks in her arches and toes sent waves of discomfort through her, yet she held onto her technique, forcing her posture into rigid elegance.
Elise, however, fought the rhythm rather than followed it. She moved erratically, aggressively, her steps pounding against the glass stage with venom. Every time she mistimed a movement, the needles punished her, burrowing into the soft flesh of her soles. Her breath was ragged, her screams sporadic but primal, each one defying the pain rather than surrendering to it.
Camelia risked a glance at Elise between spins, seeing her opponent's state deteriorate. Sweat dripped from her jawline, her lips curled into a half-mad snarl. Yet, somehow, she persisted, her body convulsing in rhythm, dancing on sheer fury alone.
Beneath them, the empty coffin loomed, its transparent surface shimmering under the lights. It was an ever present reminder, a silent judge waiting for its next occupant. Every time Camelia caught a glimpse of it, her stomach twisted. It was too real, too inevitable. The thought of being sealed inside, of never feeling air against her skin again, made her dizzy. Yet she could not afford distraction.
Elise, however, welcomed the sight of the coffin. To her, it was not a threat - it was a promise. A guarantee that if she just endured a little longer, just pushed a little harder, she would see Nadia and Camelia take their places in it instead. She focused on that vision, letting it propel her forward, past the searing pain, past the needle-stabs that turned her soles into raw, throbbing flesh.
The next song began - a drawn-out tango, its measured beats forcing them into partnered steps, mirroring each other. Camelia adapted, controlling her breathing, letting the discipline of dance guide her footwork. Elise, meanwhile, struggled. Precision was slipping through her grasp, and the bodysuit recognized it, its sensors activating punishing nodules along her calves and thighs, forcing her into spasms. She bit down on her lip, nearly drawing blood, refusing to stop.
An image flashed before her eyes. She felt the icy feeling in her palms, remembering the cold metal railing on her rooftop. How many times she stood, climbed, but never took the final step. She did not care for her safety. But now it was too late to take that exit route. She did not care for her well-being. She screamed into her gas mask, raw and wild, inhuman. Not a scream of pain, but of neglect for her own body. She would dance, and not stop. She’d rather let her body fall apart before she would surrender to her vision of control over her world. Nothing would stop her.
Camelia felt her own suit respond to the sweat pooling along her back, her body overheating under the latex and the physical exertion. The airless enclosure left her suffocating, the nodules inside pressing into her spine with every deep inhale. She longed to free herself from its grasp, to peel away the torment clinging to her skin, but there was no escape. Only forward. Only endurance.
Camelia clenched her jaw. This was her chance. But she did not celebrate. There was no joy in this - only survival. And the coffin, waiting, waiting, beneath them both.
By now, both women had suffered countless pricks, their feet bearing the brunt of the torment. Elise's soles were a battleground, needles leaving deep marks across the entirety of her arches and heels. She stumbled, her right foot taking an uneven landing, causing the nodules to punish her further. Another scream tore from her lips, but she refused to fall.
Camelia was faring better, but she was not unscathed. Her feet burned, the relentless stinging in her toes making every pointed step a challenge. But she kept going, willing herself to outlast Elise.
The patrons leaned forward, watching, waiting. There was no victor yet - only pain, only the test of willpower between two women locked in a relentless battle against each other and their own bodies.
The dance continued, the stakes looming beneath them like a silent, open grave.
The tempo of the music shifted again, the waltz fading into something sharper, more staccato. A haunting violin melody rose over the deep, rhythmic beat, demanding precision, forcing both dancers into a brutal test of control.
Elise seized the momentum. Her steps struck the stage with calculated ferocity, every motion a declaration of dominance. The pain in her feet was irrelevant - she had long since abandoned any connection to it. Pain was a language she had learned to speak fluently, and now, she wielded it like a weapon.
Camelia struggled to adjust. Her movements, so graceful, so deliberate, suddenly felt sluggish against Elise’s raw energy. Every aggressive step from Elise was a challenge, every sweeping turn an attempt to overpower. The jagged, unrelenting pace of the song forced both Elise and Camelia to match the rhythm, to move with an urgency she had spent her entire life avoiding.
The needles punished them both, but Elise no longer cared. She welcomed the sting, fed on it, and turned it into fuel. When she landed slightly off-balance and the bodysuit’s embedded sensors reacted, sending a burst of sharp pressure through her calves, she barely even twitched. When her toes curled too hard into the insoles of her heels and the spikes beneath drove into her tender skin, she let out a manic, breathless laugh instead of a cry.
Camelia was not so fortunate. The sweat gathering between her body and the suit made every movement heavier, her limbs less precise. Her breathing quickened as the suffocating latex clung to her, restricting her. The stings in her arches grew unbearable, and every pivot sent another sharp burst of agony up her legs. The suit was slick and slippery with her sweat; whenever needles extended from their nodules, not only did they prick her, but also dragged painfully over her skin as the latex slid over her skin, drawing red lines of irritation onto her abused skin. Her concentration wavered.
Elise noticed, calculating. Nadia, in shock, pressed her hands to her own covered mouth under her gas mask.
Elise pressed harder. Camelia nearly threw her off balance when the music’s tempo increased a bit, forcing her to react quickly or risk an ungraceful fall. The coffin beneath them loomed in her peripheral vision, and again, the fear crept in.
Elise saw it. And she smiled. She had a psychological advantage over Camelia.
The patrons erupted into applause at the shift in energy. They could sense it - Camelia was faltering. And Elise? Elise was thriving. She had been broken once, but now she was the breaker. She relished in it, in the knowledge that the woman before her - so controlled, so measured - was cracking under the weight of her relentless assault.
Another misstep. Another sharp jab from the suit. Needles extending all over the front of the latex suit, coaxing a scream of surprise and pain from her, threatening to throw her off-rhythm even more. Camelia’s foot trembled as she fought to remain upright, her muscles screaming for relief.
Elise leaned in just enough for her whisper to cut roughly through her gas mask and the pounding music. "You feel it, don’t you? The coffin calling for you. It suits you more than it ever suited me." Camelia clenched her jaw. She wouldn’t answer. She wouldn’t give Elise the satisfaction. But the next sequence of movements approached fast, and her body was betraying her. She was running out of time.
The battle had raged on far longer than any duel in Abyss’s history. The club, once buzzing with energy, had fallen into a captivated silence, broken only by the relentless pulse of the music and the labored breathing of the dancers.
Elise had seized control early, her aggression overwhelming, her steps fueled by rage and the unbearable need to prove herself. But Camelia had endured, barely. Elise was becoming more confident, despite her battered state. Camelia was the better dancer. This was clear. She knew it. But she could not endure the pain, and over the length of the dance as song came after song, her mistakes accumulated. Camelia was bad at enduring pain. She had known before, but when Mireille had brought the ballerina down in screams, she was sure. Camelia was weak. She, Elise, was strong. She would just endure the pain. Even without the anesthesia gel, she was good; she cared little about the pain. She knew a pain far greater than that - the pain that pierced her heart and soul on the intersection. That pain overshadowed everything else. If anything, in her headspace, she could utilize the pain in her heels to blanket the true pain underneath. As long as her heart was beating, and she would not faint from exhaustion, she would outlast the needles and outlast Camelia. And then claim Nadia. Claim back her life, her control.
But slowly, also Elise’s movements grew less precise. Her stamina, once a seemingly endless wellspring of wrath, began to betray her. The suffocating latex suit clung to her like a second skin, trapping the heat, forcing her body into overdrive. Sweat pooled between the material and her flesh, sliding in rivulets down her arms, her thighs, her back. The translucent suit made no effort to hide the evidence of her exhaustion - her flushed, sweat-drenched skin shone beneath it, her face an alarming shade of red. Red lines told stories of where the needles had been dragged over her skin by the slippery sliding latex.
She gasped for air through the gas mask’s valve. The bodysuit’s constriction only made it worse. The needles inside the suit still reacted to every falter, every misstep, punishing her even as she fought to stay upright. Her vision blurred for a moment, as the mask's goggles fogged up, dizziness creeping in like an unwelcome whisper.
Alexandru leaned forward, setting his glass aside, his elbows resting on his knees as he watched the cracks form in Elise’s performance. Sweat glistened against her translucent suit, her movements just a fraction too sharp, too desperate. He knew her well enough to recognize it - this wasn’t strategy. This was panic. His lips parted, his breath slow and measured. Was this how it would end for her? No grand triumph, no final act of dominance - just the slow, inevitable crumbling of a woman who had spent her life ensuring she would never be the one to fall?
Camelia fought her own battle against the needles, lost in the rhythm of the music. The heat inside her latex suit was unbearable. Sweat slicked her skin, trapped in the suffocating material, making every motion heavier, every breath more labored. It clung to her like a second skin, a relentless embrace that stole her strength with every passing second. Her muscles burned - not just from exertion, but from the sheer exhaustion of maintaining balance, control. And yet, she had none. The missteps were coming faster now, each one met with an immediate, punishing response from the shoes.
Her soles were exposed to the dull, unyielding needles. Each time her rhythm faltered, the mechanisms in her heels activated, driving the blunted needles into the softest parts of her feet - her delicate arches, the sensitive balls of her feet, the base of her toes. The pain was instant, sharp, and cruel. It did not lessen when she regained control; it lingered, a reminder, a warning.
And yet, a temptation remained. The thought whispered to her, insidious and relentless: just drop. Just let go for a moment. Sink to your knees, just for a few seconds, let the pain fade from your feet - just for a breath. But she knew better.
The heel’s insoles were designed for this. The moment she lifted her weight off them, they would respond - extending fully, dull needles rising like waiting fangs. The moment she tried to stand again, her feet would meet the full force of their punishment. Her arches, already trembling with exertion, would be unable to withstand the agony. She would collapse again. And again. And she would never rise.
She could see it happening - the horror of it playing out in her mind. The weightlessness of falling, the momentary reprieve, the shuddering realization of what awaited her. The first attempt to rise - her feet pressing down on an insole no longer bearable. The second, weaker attempt. The third. And then… nothing. She would kneel there, broken, until it was over. They’d activate the gas, and she’d wake up in the rubber coffin.
Nadia looked in horror at the swaying dancer, her fate being linked directly to hers.
A sharp sting beneath her toes pulled her back to reality. She had faltered again. A whimper escaped her lips before she could stop it. The pain lashed through her, her body trembling in response. She let her movements become smaller, conserving energy while maintaining grace. She relied on precision rather than force, her body gliding through the choreography as if she had practiced it a thousand times. While Elise struggled against the suit, against the heat, against herself, Camelia surrendered to it. She let the sweat coat her skin, let the bodysuit constrict her like a lover’s grip, and embraced the discipline it required. She allowed her mask to fog up on every exhale and clear again on the inhale.
Her breathing remained ragged. Even as the sting of the needles gnawed at the soles of her feet, she focused on the rhythm, the timing, the balance. It was a dance, after all. And dancing was what she knew best.
Across her, Elise stumbled. It was slight - almost imperceptible - but it was there.
Camelia saw it. And she knew.
Elise was burning out.
She could feel the weight pressing down on her opponent, see the way her shoulders hunched, the sweat dripping from her chin onto the stage, the rising panic in her eyes as her body began to betray her.
For the first time since the duel had begun, Camelia allowed herself to hope. The dance wasn’t over. But she had found her path to victory. Elise’s body was reaching its breaking point. The relentless assault of movement, of heat, of pain, all began to coalesce into an unbearable weight pressing down on her. The sweat trapped inside her latex suit clung to her like a second layer of skin, making every motion heavier, more labored. Each breath was a struggle - shallow, desperate gasps that never seemed to fill her lungs completely, the mask’s valve an insurmountable obstacle. Her heart pounded against her ribs, her pulse erratic, her body crying for relief that would never come.
She pushed forward anyway. She had to. The thought of losing, of being the one sent to the coffin again after everything she had endured, was a horror she could not allow herself to accept.
Elise’s steps became heavier, less controlled, she stomped into needles without regard, without care. The calculated aggression that had fueled her dance earlier was now working against her. She no longer dictated the rhythm - she was chasing it, stumbling after the beat like a desperate animal trying to outrun its own exhaustion. The stage beneath her felt like it was shifting, warping, tilting beneath her feet, though she knew it wasn’t. It was her own failing sense of balance, her own body betraying her.
The music pressed on, unwavering in its tempo, indifferent to her struggle. The violin’s piercing notes felt cruel now, an unbearable contrast to her own faltering movements.
She blinked rapidly, trying to keep her focus, but dark spots flickered at the edges of her vision. Her body’s warning signs were blaring, but she ignored them. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her lungs burning from the lack of oxygen. Sweat poured down her back, soaking her translucent suit, making it cling to her skin, suffocating her in heat and exhaustion.
A sharp miscalculation. Her foot landed a fraction too early, shifting too much of her weight onto her right heel. The suit’s sensors responded instantly, activating a fresh surge of needles into the small of her back, her stomach, and arch of her foot. The pain was immediate, searing. She screamed into her gas mask, instinctively trying to shift her balance, but her weakened muscles refused to cooperate. Her knees buckled slightly as her arms flailed, desperately trying to correct her posture.
She wobbled. The misstep was small, but it was enough.
Camelia saw it. Where Elise had flowed with the rising pain, eventually exhaustion was catching up with her. Camelia was fighting against the pain, trying her best to ignore it, each motion deliberate, conserving energy, allowing her body to maintain control even as her muscles screamed.
Elise tried to recover, but her vision swam. Her skin burned under the oppressive heat, her latex suit offering no respite. Her head tilted dangerously forward, and she knew, in a distant part of her mind, that she was going down.
The fall was not sudden. It was slow, excruciating, like the collapse of a structure that had been weakened for too long. Her knees buckled first. Her legs, trembling violently, gave out beneath her. As she crumpled onto the stage, the needles within her suit activated wildly, punishing her failure without mercy. Fresh bursts of sharp pain lanced through her thighs, her back, her calves - everywhere, bringing her mind back to focus. Her entire body tensed, muscles convulsing under the sudden assault, but she no longer had the strength to react.
And yet, she barely reacted.
For the first time since the duel had begun, Elise did not scream. Did not resist. Her body slumped, her breath shallow, her limbs momentarily lifeless. The club watched in breathless silence.
Had she lost?
A second passed. Then another. Camelia danced on, waiting, ready to claim victory. Then - Elise moved.
With a sudden, jerking motion, she pushed herself up, her eyes wide, frantic. She barely acknowledged the fresh sting of the needles as she forced herself upright, her feet landing back onto the extended needles waiting on the insoles. The pain should have been unbearable, but she didn’t even care. She wouldn’t care. She didn’t scream.
She was not done.
Her breath came in rapid, shallow gasps, her body overheating, her vision blurred, but she forced herself forward. The pain, the exhaustion, the dizziness - all of it was secondary to her sheer, unrelenting determination. Sweat dripped out of her gas mask from her jaw, her damp hair clinging to her flushed face. The translucent latex suit did nothing to hide the trembling in her limbs, the slight quiver in her stance as she tried to force her body back into motion.
With a guttural growl, her lenses fogged up completely as Elise forced herself back into the rhythm with inhuman strength, resuming the dance, her limbs trembling, her entire body soaked in sweat. A sharp inhale cleared the goggles as fresh air passed over them, just in time as she locked eyes directly with Camelia. A wild animal on the prowl, ready to pounce, ready to gnaw its own paw off, if needed. She would not stop until her body would fall apart. Camelia shuddered in fear at this display of raw physicality. Elise’s face was bright red behind the gas mask’s goggles, her chest heaved, her breath rattled behind her locked gas mask. She was running on nothing but sheer, unrelenting willpower now.
Camelia’s eyes narrowed. She panicked as she realized that she would not beat Elise. She herself danced better, but the pain slowly won out as the long, long duel wore her down. A slow war of attrition. She saw that Elise was in pain even more, so out of rhythm, her suit and heels were active all the time, but Elise was unfazed, and didn't even care most of the time. How was she even getting back up? Camelia felt a cold flash of dread. The floor in front of her looked so inviting suddenly.
She had expected Elise to collapse - but she hadn’t expected her to rise again so quickly. The duel was not over yet. Elise would never give up.
But Elise barely managed to stay upright. Her legs trembled violently beneath her, her body swaying like a marionette with its strings frayed. The latex bodysuit clung to her like a second skin, glistening with sweat beneath the blinding lights. Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, her chest heaving in frantic desperation. The heat was unbearable, trapped inside the sealed suit, suffocating her in its relentless grip.
She danced, out of sync, but she danced. Stomped wildly, swaying dangerously. Ignoring the needles that must have been fully extended by this kind of erratic movement. Still, nothing stopped her.
Sweat poured from her face, dripping freely from her chin behind the gas mask, rolling down her back in thick rivulets, drops and droplets began to cover the stage beneath her. Every movement felt heavier, her limbs sluggish, her vision blurred. The world spun slightly as she tried to blink the haze away. Below the transparent stage, the empty coffin loomed, a silent predator waiting for its victim. The reality of it pressed against her mind, the finality of what was coming. She screamed, not from the pain, but from her control over her body slipping away.
She forced herself to straighten, wobbling on aching legs, willing her muscles to obey. Her will was steel, but her body was no longer listening. The fatigue was too deep, her heart beating in her throat, the pain overwhelming. A moment later, her knees buckled again, her own weight luring her down against her will.
Camelia kept moving. She had no choice. The needles in her own suit and heels would not forgive any hesitation. Though exhaustion threatened to take hold of her, she remained focused, her discipline unshaken. She drew in a long breath of air through her own gas mask. It was too warm for her comfort, she was boiling inside her latex needle suit. She needed a few more minutes of concentration. Her vision swam, the goggles fogged up. She was close to fainting herself, but she could not show it, she needed these minutes to dance flawlessly. If she triggered too many needles now, she would fall and never get up again. Nadia looked on in despair as her champion swayed dangerously.
Camelia was about to crumble, knowing that survival belonged to the one who could endure the longest. Each step she took was measured, precise. Even as she watched Elise break apart, she mobilized her last strength to keep her own posture upright. She was so tempted to rest, just for a second. A moment of rest, on her knees, taking the weight of her feet, would be worth it, regardless of the price. She started to sway. She knew, this was it … her end.
Elise’s breath fractured into jagged shards of air, each one trembling at the edge of a scream. The realization cut through her delirium like a blade of cold iron: Camelia was losing. She just needed to endure a bit longer. The ballerina’s end was near; the circle would close within a single minute, and one of them would fall into silence.
Then came the flash. It seared behind her eyes, bright and merciless. Fire. Metal. The car wreck. The shuddering impact of memory. The vision looked real. The heat was real, not only in her mind. The heat of the fire folded around her body, trapped beneath the suffocating sheen of latex; it was the same heat from that night, the one that had melted reason and mercy from her heart. Beyond that wall of fire she saw a pair of eyes opening, and locking onto her’s. She felt dizzy. The apparition unraveled her. Panic clawed up her throat, wild and animal. She fought, against gravity, against exhaustion, against the inevitability that pressed on her like stone. Needles of pain blossomed along her skin, screaming with every twitch. Somehow, impossibly, she rose again, her knees trembling, her muscles quivering under the weight of her will. For a brief second, she managed to lift herself back onto trembling legs, staggering, swaying dangerously.
But it was borrowed strength, fleeting as breath. Then, with a desperate, broken gasp, she collapsed forward onto her hands.
The suit responded with merciless precision. Needles buried themselves into her arms, her legs, her stomach - sharp, relentless punishment. Her scream tore through the club, raw and animalistic. Her fingers clawed uselessly against the sweat slick stage, her body convulsing under the pain. But she could barely fight back anymore. The fire in her movements was gone, replaced by erratic, helpless spasms. The latex of her suit rippled with every violent shudder, the sweat inside pooling and sloshing with her involuntary jerks.
She tried to push herself up again, but her arms buckled beneath her. Her body had given everything. She was spent.
She reached for her face, her gloved fingers clawing at the locked gas mask that had been secured onto her before the duel, trying to rip it off of her face. The reality of it slammed into her mind - this was it. This was the end.
"No," she gasped, shaking her head, her sweat-soaked hair clinging to her burning face. "No, I - "
The attendants moved without hesitation. A silent command was given. The mechanism inside the gas mask activated. The vial opened.
A slow, suffocating sweetness filled the chamber of the mask.
Elise’s eyes widened in horror. She tried to hold her breath, to fight it, but her body was betraying her, as it had for the last agonizing minutes. Her lungs screamed for air. Her muscles twitched with the need to inhale. She clenched her jaw, shaking, her entire body shuddering in resistance.
A single, desperate gasp.
The gas hit her like a hammer. Her body tensed violently, muscles locking in place as her mind reeled. Her head spun, the world tilting wildly.
She tried again to resist, to fight back, to force her legs to move. One last, desperate effort. She forced herself upright, stumbled forward, her feet barely catching on the glassy stage.
Two steps.
Then her body betrayed her completely.
Her knees struck the stage with a sharp crack, her limbs trembling, her hands grasping at nothing. Her mind screamed at her to move, to fight, but the gas was relentless. It pulled her deeper, unraveling what little strength she had left. The club spun around her, the lights blurring into an indistinguishable haze.
Her lungs burned for air. Another sharp inhale. Sweetness flooded the mask and her lungs as her vision started to fade.
She grabbed the gas mask with both hands and pulled. Nothing happened. It didn’t budge. Her arms trembled violently, then buckled beneath her. She slumped forward onto the stage, her body going limp. A final strangled whimper escaped her lips before her consciousness slipped away entirely.
The duel was over.
Camelia came to a slow stop, her chest rising and falling with deep, controlled breaths. Her own body ached, her muscles screamed, but she remained standing. Victorious.
Alexandru didn’t move. His face remained impassive, but inside, something twisted and coiled as Elise collapsed. A sharp intake of breath - hers, the crowd’s, maybe even his own. For the first time in all the years he had known her, she was utterly silent. No taunts, no venom, no commands. Just the dull, heavy sound of her body hitting the stage, the gasps of the audience, the knowing smile curling Evelyn’s lips. The duel was over. Elise had lost.
The silence in the club was absolute.
The coffin beneath the stage hummed softly, the mechanism raising it slowly up to the stage, preparing itself for its new occupant.
Elise would not rise again.
Camelia stood beneath the glaring lights of Abyss’s grand stage, her breath still uneven, her muscles screaming from the ordeal. The moment the duel had ended, Evelyn had stepped forward, her voice carrying over the murmurs of the crowd.
"Camelia," she announced, "the victor."
A wave of applause rippled through the club, but it was not the kind of triumphant celebration Camelia had once known from the stage. This was different. There was admiration, certainly - but laced beneath it was something darker. Amusement. Interest. A kind of hunger.
She had survived. She had won. But at what cost?
Her heart pounded as she scanned the faces of the crowd. Some cheered for her. Others watched with a calculating gaze, already measuring her, already deciding what her next test would be. Abyss never let victory come without a price. And now, she had marked herself as a new favorite - a new target.
Evelyn smirked from her place beside the stage, her sharp gaze locked onto Camelia like a predator assessing fresh prey. "Impressive," she mused, her voice dripping with intrigue.
A shiver ran down Camelia’s spine, but she kept her posture firm. She had stepped into this willingly. She had made her choice. But now, standing victorious on the same stage where so many had fallen, she realized the true nature of her defiance.
She had saved Nadia.
As the night pressed on and the crowd began to disperse, whispers followed in her wake. Names she didn’t yet know. Eyes she could feel on her even as she tried to slip away into the shadows of the club.
Somewhere, beyond the bright lights of the main stage, the true masters of Abyss were watching. And they would not forget her.
Elise was lost to the world.
She drifted in unconsciousness, unaware as the attendants lifted her limp body from the stage. The duel had ended, her last moments spent in a haze of exhaustion, pain, and the sickly sweet pull of the gas. Now, she was weightless, her body a mere object in the hands of Abyss, reduced to nothing but another offering to its ever-hungry depths.
The preparation began swiftly. Her sweat-drenched suit was carefully peeled away, revealing her trembling, overheated skin. A gentle stream of cool water cascaded over her, washing away the evidence of the battle, cleansing her for what was to come. The attendants worked methodically, their hands gliding over her in impersonal efficiency and unnatural speed, ensuring every inch of her was purified before the next step. The scent of sterile soap filled the air as they scrubbed away the last remnants of her struggle, leaving her skin smooth and vulnerable.
Then came the razor.
With quiet precision, the last remnants of her former self were stripped away. Her once-regrown hair was shaved down to nothing, leaving her scalp smooth and bare. Her brows, the last markers of her expression, were taken as well, rendering her face eerily blank, devoid of defiance or identity. She had fought so hard, but now, she was featureless, reshaped for the abyss. Every stroke of the blade finalized her transformation, reducing her further into an anonymous figure meant only for confinement.
Tubes followed next. A thin feeding tube was inserted, ensuring her body would be sustained even as she lay in stillness. A waste tube connected seamlessly, a quiet humiliation that would serve as a reminder of her powerlessness. The breathing apparatus was secured last, a delicate yet unyielding mechanism that would regulate each breath she took from now on. She would never again decide the rhythm of her own existence. The finality of the tubes ensured that her body was no longer her own, merely a part of the machinery that would sustain her indefinitely.
When the attendants finished, a thin, transparent latex suit was brought forward. It gleamed under the cold lights, delicate and weightless in their hands, yet it would become her second skin, sealing her fate as the coffin’s eternal prisoner.
Her unconscious body was guided into the suit, the material stretching over her feet first, molding itself against her heels, her arches, her individual toes, clinging to the sensitive flesh as if it had always been meant to belong there. Inch by inch, it traveled upward, encasing her calves, her thighs, her stomach, and then her chest. The latex stretched smoothly over her curves, pressing tightly into her form. Her arms were guided into their respective sleeves, the latex tightening around her fingers.
Finally, it enveloped her head, completing the transformation. The thin film pressed against her lips, her cheeks, the curve of her skull. Every contour was visible through the transparent material, leaving no part of her unseen, yet nothing of her truly present. She was an object now, a thing prepared for confinement. Her breath, shallow and involuntary, was the only movement she had left.
The coffin awaited. She was still limp, her body carried out on stage again, tubes and cables trailing.
The transparent coffin gleamed, open and empty, ready to swallow her whole. Elise’s body was carefully positioned inside, her legs guided into their designated sleeves, holding them motionless. Her arms now locked at her sides, the latex of her suit sliding seamlessly into the interior’s own lining between the vacuum sheets. The eye mask was secured over her closed eyes, casting her into eternal darkness. Earplugs followed, their subtle hum of white noise swallowing every sound, reducing her world to pure silence. The only sound left was the mechanical hum of the chamber, preparing to enclose her completely. The small bullet vibrator was inserted into its waiting pocket over her clitoris.
And then came the seal.
The second transparent latex sheet was drawn over her, aligning perfectly with the first below her. The vacuum process began, the air between them drawn away, pressing her into the unrelenting embrace of the material. She was vacuum-sheeted, held in place, unable to move, unable to resist. Every breath she took was controlled, dictated by the rhythm of the breathing tube. There was no escape, no relief, only stillness. The sheets molded to her body completely, encasing her in a smooth, unyielding grip, the pressure constant and inescapable.
To finalize her imprisonment, the inflatable latex cushions beneath and above her activated, filling gently, pushing her into the center of the coffin, ensuring she would not ever shift more than a few inches. She was completely restrained, held in a perfect suspension between layers of latex, encased in silence, deprived of all sensation beyond the relentless embrace of her prison. The cushions expanded until they pressed firmly against her from all sides, leaving her with nothing but the quiet squeeze of her confinement.
The process was complete. Elise had been absorbed into Abyss, her fight extinguished, her hatred silenced. She was neither here nor there, existing only within the vacuum of her prison, her body motionless, her identity erased.
The crowd watched in fascination. The finality of it was mesmerizing, the transformation absolute.
Evelyn’s lips curled into a satisfied smirk as she observed the final locking mechanism seal the coffin shut. Camelia stood motionless, her chest still rising and falling from exertion, yet her eyes never left Elise’s unmoving form. Nadia exhaled slowly, her expression unreadable. Alexandru, standing among the spectators, clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. He had once known Elise, loved her in his own way, but now she was nothing more than another ghost trapped within Abyss.
The coffin hummed softly, as if pleased to be whole again. The sound was almost soothing, like a lullaby meant for the one inside.
Elise’s eyes fluttered open under the eye covers.
There was nothing but darkness.
Nothing but silence.
And the unrelenting embrace of latex. She tried to move. Something was wrong. Nothing happened. The sheets held her as though she were a mere shadow, a suggestion of a person rather than flesh and blood. She tried to scream. No sound reached her ears. The white noise consumed everything, isolating her completely. Panic flared in her mind, but it had nowhere to go. There was no outlet, no way to thrash, no way to resist.
Her consciousness faded away once more.