The heavy door shut with a metallic finality, leaving only torchlight, shadows, and the unnerving silence between them.

Sigrid stood by the stone wall, arms crossed, his silver hair falling messily into his pale, sharp face. His eyes—those unnatural, ice-blue eyes—never left her.

Ira sat slumped in the wooden chair, wrists chained to its arms. Her head throbbed like a war drum. The pounding in her skull made it hard to breathe, let alone think.

“Where is Lillian?” he asked again, voice low but hard.

“I told you—I don’t know who that is—”

“Don’t lie to me!” he snapped. The torch behind him flared.

Ira flinched. “I’m not! I swear I—!”

Sigrid stepped closer, voice like a winter wind. “You expect me to believe you forgot her??”

“I don’t know her!” Ira cried, panic climbing.

But the pressure in her skull pulsed again—sharp, painful.

And then—

A flash.

A restaurant. Her parents clinking glasses. Her brother’s dumb karaoke. Her mother tearing up when they surprised her with that ridiculous chocolate fountain.

Their anniversary.

They were laughing. Driving home. She was in the back seat, teasing Rik for stealing dessert. Bright lights. Screeching tires.

A truck.

The sound of metal crushing bones and glass and time.

Her breath caught.

She was going to die.

And.....

“No…” she whispered, horrified, her whole body freezing.

Sigrid noticed the shift instantly. “What did you just remember?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, her eyes darted around the room—cold stone, chains, a tarnished silver shield mounted behind him. Its surface was dented, cracked—

But reflective.

And in that faint mirror, she saw herself.

The girl in the shield wasn’t her.

Pale skin. Soft, spoiled features. Long curls. A dress meant for a baroque-themed villainess.

This wasn’t her face.

“No. No no no—” Ira whispered, trembling now.

“What is this act again?” Sigrid asked, stepping forward.

Her fingers clawed at the chair’s arms. “This isn’t real. This isn’t me. This is someone else—someone else’s body—”

“Stop it,” he said sharply.

“I’m not Millicent!” she cried. “I’m Ira! what the hell is going on!?”

She jerked against the chains, tears streaming. “Ira ! That’s my name! We just celebrated our parents’ anniversary, we were driving and—”

Sigrid’s jaw clenched. “Enough.”

“I’m not her. I’m not Millicent Grace. You’ve got the wrong girl!” she said again, voice breaking.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not!” she screamed.

That’s when he snapped.

Sigrid crossed the room in a blink. One hand clamped around her throat, pinning her against the chair with terrifying ease.

“You don’t get to die,” he hissed, ice gathering at the edges of his fingers. “Not until I find her. Not until you tell me everything.”

She gagged, eyes wide, gasping under his grip—but even as she choked, she didn’t stop.

“It’s not me… not me… I swear…” she sobbed, still repeating it like a prayer.

He hesitated. For a moment, just one, the fury faltered.

He released her throat.

She crumpled forward, coughing violently, face slick with tears.

Sigrid paced back, glaring down at her. “Then prove it. If you're not her, give me one piece of evidence.”

Her hands trembled. But her voice—shaky, ragged—held.

“I swear to you, I’m not who you think I am.”

He stepped forward. She tried to shrink back, but the chair didn’t let her.

“I have no use for games.”

“It’s not a game!” she cried, panicked. “I cook. That’s who I am. That’s what I do. Let me prove it.”

A pause.

He narrowed his eyes. 

Silence stretched.

He stared at her like he was trying to rip the truth from her bones.

Then, unexpectedly, he said:

“…Very well. I am exhausted after your nonsense ”

Ira looked up.

Sigrid’s voice was flat but clear. “Cook for me, Millicent Grace. I shall grant you a last supper”