Previous Chapter (20) - Martin | First Chapter - Camila
The dry heat of the sauna pressed against Camila Reyes like a heavy, comforting blanket. It was a sterile, purifying heat, smelling of cedar and hot stones.
She sat alone on the upper bench, her eyes closed, listening to the rhythmic
hiss-pop of water evaporating on the heater.
One year.
It was hard to reconcile the woman sitting here—naked, sweating, and safe in one of Manhattan’s most exclusive spas—with the broken thing that had been dragged out of a cage twelve months ago.
In that year, Camila hadn’t just survived; she had conquered. She hadn’t hidden from her trauma; she had weaponized it. Her first-person exposè in The New York Times, titled "The Girl in the Giggle Room," had shattered readership records. It had ripped the veil off the city’s underground trafficking network, ending careers, launching investigations, and putting Frank Romano’s operation in the history books of horror.
Then came the book deal. "Silence is for the Dead". It had been on the Bestseller list for twenty weeks. Last week, she had taken a meeting with a producer from Warner Bros who wanted to option the film rights. They talked about casting. They threw around names like Zendaya and Ana de Armas to play her.
She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead. She had won. She had taken the worst thing that had ever happened to her and turned it into an empire of armor. She was untouchable now.
She opened her eyes, checking the hourglass on the wall. Time to go.
She wrapped her plush white towel around her body, stepping out of the sauna and into the cool, marble-lined corridor. The transition was jarring but invigorating. She walked with her head high, the conditioned flinch of the past replaced by the confident stride of a woman who owned the room.
She approached the reception desk for the spa’s treatment wing. The lighting here was soft, amber-hued, designed to lull the wealthy into a state of pliability.
The receptionist was a new face. A stunningly beautiful woman with dark hair pulled back into a severe, elegant bun. She looked up as Camila approached, her smile practiced and warm.
"Hello," Camila said. "I'm here for my appointment? Reyes."
The woman’s smile brightened, a flash of white teeth. "Of course, Ms. Reyes. Right this way, please."
She stepped out from behind the desk, her movements graceful and fluid, and gestured for Camila to follow her down a hallway lined with heavy oak doors.
"I hope you don’t mind, Ms. Reyes," the woman said, her voice a soft, melodious purr as she walked. "But when we saw your name on the booking sheet for the last slot of the day, we took the liberty of upgrading your package."
Camila suppressed a sigh. It was happening again. The celebrity tax—or rather, the celebrity dividend. Everyone wanted a piece of the survivor-heroine.
"Oh," Camila said, injecting a note of polite gratitude into her voice. "You really didn't have to go to any trouble."
"It’s no trouble at all," the woman replied, glancing back over her shoulder. "We’ve switched you to 'The Empress’s Caress.' It is is a three-hour procession of indulgence — silk-glove exfoliation, a gold-leaf body wrap, a flowing Lomi-Lomi massage with warm rose-quartz stones, and a luminous pearl-infused facial, each step designed to make a woman feel not just pampered, but enthroned. At no extra charge, of course."
"That sounds… intense," Camila said, forcing a smile. "Thank you."
They reached the end of the hall. The woman opened a heavy door, revealing a treatment room that was larger and more opulent than the others. The walls were lined with silk, and the massage table in the center looked like a cloud.
"Please," the woman said, ushering her in. "Go in and make yourself comfortable. You can leave your towel on the chair. Lie face down on the table and place your face in the cradle. Your therapist will be along presently."
"Thank you very much, Miss…" Camila paused, realizing she hadn't caught a name.
The woman beamed. "Santiago."
She gave a small bow and backed out of the room, closing the door with a soft click.
Camila was alone. The silence was absolute, save for the faint hum of the HVAC system. She dropped her towel onto the designated chair and stretched her arms over her head, feeling her spine crack in a satisfying cascade. She felt good. Strong.
She walked over to the table. A fresh, oversized towel was folded neatly at the foot. She hopped onto the plush surface, the padding sinking under her weight. She positioned herself, shivering slightly as her skin met the cool sheets, and lowered her face into the padded horseshoe of the face cradle.
Her world narrowed to a view of the dark mahogany floorboards and the brushed steel leg of the table.
She let out a long breath, willing her muscles to unspool. She reached back and awkwardly pulled the fresh towel up, draping it over her glutes and legs, covering herself from her lower back to her knees.
She closed her eyes.
Just relax, Camila. You earned this.
Minutes passed. She drifted in the sensory void, half-asleep.
Then, the door opened.
She heard the soft tread of footsteps entering the room. They were light, barely making a sound on the hardwood.
The door closed again.
Then came a sound that made her eyelids flutter open.
Click.
It wasn't the soft latch of the door handle. It was the distinct, mechanical snap of a deadbolt being thrown.
A prickle of unease danced down Camila’s spine, but she dismissed it. Privacy lock. Standard for high-end treatments.
"Good evening, Ms. Reyes," a voice purred from somewhere behind her.
It was a male voice. Smooth, cultured, but with a strange, rasping undertone that tickled a memory she couldn't quite place.
"Mmmm, good evening," Camila murmured into the face cradle, keeping her eyes closed. "Er, would you mind starting on my shoulders? I've been doing book signings all week, and my traps are absolutely killing me."
"Yes… of course," the voice replied.
A moment later, music began to play from hidden speakers. It wasn't the usual generic spa ambient loops. It was Balinese Gamelan music—rhythmic, metallic, percussive chimes that were hypnotic but also subtly discordant.
Simultaneously, a scent filled the air. Sandalwood. Heavy, cloying sandalwood oil being heated nearby. It was intense, almost suffocating.
Camila shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable. "Let me just arrange the towel, Ms. Reyes," the voice said. It was closer now. Right beside the table.
She felt hands on the towel covering her. They didn't just tuck it in. They pulled it.
The towel was drawn up, covering her upper back, and pulled down, covering her calves. She felt the fabric tighten across her body. The therapist spent a long time adjusting it, tucking it firmly under her sides, under her arms, under her thighs. It felt secure. Cocoon-like.
"Thank you," Camila mumbled into the cradle. "And thank you again for the upgrade. It really is very kind of you."
The hands stopped moving. The person stepped back.
The room was silent for a beat, the strange chiming music swelling in volume.
When the voice spoke again, the professional veneer had cracked. The smooth purr was gone, replaced by a dripping, venomous sneer that sent a bolt of ice straight through Camila’s heart.
"It was for old times' sake."
Camila’s eyes snapped open. She stared at the floorboards, her brain misfiring.
Old times' sake?
The phrase hung in the air, heavy with threat.
Then, movement.
A hand appeared in her limited field of vision. It moved under the face cradle, hovering over the floor for a casual second directly under the face cradle, palm up.
Camila stopped breathing.
The hand was pale. Veiny.
And the fingernails…
They weren't nails. They were talons. Long. Curled. Painted a glossy, midnight black. They were filed to needle-sharp points.
She knew those hands. She had seen them gesturing in the dim light of the studio. She had seen them pointing. She had felt them.
Nails.
Panic, absolute and feral, exploded in her chest.
"NO!"
She tried to launch herself off the table. She fired every muscle in her body, trying to roll, to kick, to push up.
She couldn't move.
The towel.
It wasn't just tucked in. It was cinched. The fabric was pulled tight underneath the table, locking her arms to her sides and her legs to the padding. She thrashed, her shoulders straining, but she was pinned flat, helpless as a butterfly on a board.
Then, sensation.
Heat.
Wet, heavy heat splashed onto the soles of her exposed feet.
It was thick. Viscous. It ran down her heels, pooling in her arches, sliding slickly between her toes. It smelled of sandalwood.
"WAIT!" Camila screamed, the sound muffled by the face cradle. "STOP! WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!"
The music swelled louder, the chimes crashing against each other in a chaotic rhythm.
"Miss me?" the voice whispered.
It came from the foot of the table. He was right there.
And then, contact.
Ten razor-sharp points dug into her skin.
Two hands grabbed her feet, fingers curling over the tops, thumbs digging into her soles. The talons bit in.
With a sudden, violent motion, he scraped them down the length of her feet.
From the heel, grinding over the wrinkled skin of her arches, tearing over the sensitive pads of her toes. It was a sensation of such overwhelming intensity—sharp, scraping, crushing pressure combined with the chemical heat of the oil—that it bypassed pain and went straight to shock.
"AAAAAHHHH!"
Camila screamed. A raw, tearing sound that ripped her throat.
"NO! NO! HELP ME!"
"Sssshhh," Nails hissed. "The music is loud, Your Highness. And the door is locked."
He released his grip, letting her feet hang there, throbbing, covered in the hot oil.
"Now," he murmured, his voice thick with sadistic anticipation. "If I remember correctly…"
She felt a single, sharp point touch the pad of her left big toe. He didn't scratch. He pinched it, holding it steady, bending it back.
"…the Empress has a weakness."
A second talon landed on the taut ball of her foot.
It started a slow, agonizingly deliberate spiral. It moved down from the ball into the long valley of her arch.
Camila squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking into the face cradle. She knew where he was going. She remembered. Her body remembered.
"NOT THERE!" she shrieked, thrashing against the towel, her hips bucking uselessly. "NAILS, PLEASE! NOT THERE! I'M BEGGING YOU!"
"Begging?" he chuckled. "Oooh how I missed your begging, Camila."
The nail started a wide, slow spiral between the ball of her foot and her arch.
"no-no-no please staaaaha-ha-ha-ha-ha-p don't! not there! pleeeeeeeease!"
the spiral tightened. Camila strained again, harder. Her laugher bubbling to a crecendo.
"fuck fuck fuck ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha I'll do anything! just—NOT THERE!!!"
It hit the spot. That cluster of nerves right under the ball where it meets the arch.
He didn't gouge. He didn't tear.
He scratched. Lightly. Rapidly. Back and forth.
The reaction was catastrophic. A bolt of white-hot lightning shot up her leg, exploding in her spine. It was agony. It was ecstasy. It was the most violating, unbearable sensation in the world.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!"
The scream shattered into laughter. Broken, hysterical, terrified laughter that she couldn't stop.
"FFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCK!"
She slammed her forehead against the cradle, sobbing and laughing, drool pooling on the floor.
"AAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA STAAAAAAAHHHHP!!!!" she cried, breathlessly.
Then the sensation stopped. Camila choked back sobs into the face cradle "please... Please no more"
Then Camila felt two of nails digits get between her big and second toes of her right foot and spread them.
"Not there! Not the toes! Please no!!"
"Suit yourself". Then that wicked nail was back at the spot between the ball of her foot and her arch, lightly scratching.
Camila exploded "NNOOOOOT AGAIN! NNAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA STAAA-HA-HA-HAP!! NOT THERE!"
nail lifted and instead scratched the delicate webbing between her pried open big and second toes
"NOT THE TOES! NOT THE TOOOOO-HO-HO-HOES STOP IT PLEASE!! IT TICKLES!! AAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!"
the nail lifted "pick one, Camila"
"Wh-what I... I can't... Please, no more"
Camila heard a comical sigh behind her. Then she felt the heel of his hand push against her toes, pushing them back, making her foot taut.
Then on the foot where he pushed back her toes, his nail scratched that horrible spot under the ball of her foot, at the same time she felt four sharp points scritch between her toes of her other foot.
"FFUUUUHUHUHUCK! NNNAAAAAAAAA! STAAAAAAAA! NAAAAAAILS PLEASE! HAAAAA-HAA-HAA-HAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA! NOOO-HO-HOT THE TOOO-HO-HOES!!!"
"THE BALL! THE BALL! TICKLE THE BALL HAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!!"
"Oooh wrong answer"
Then the heel of his hand lifted and she felt his talons scritch between those toes as well.
Camila screamed like a banshee and flailed on the table as those daggers lightly scratched the dense nerve clusters between her toes.
"There she is," Nails whispered, scratching harder, digging into the nerves. "This is what I missed. The book was good, Camila. But the movie? It's going to need a sequel."
The dry heat of the sauna pressed against Camila Reyes like a heavy, comforting blanket. It was a sterile, purifying heat, smelling of cedar and hot stones.
She sat alone on the upper bench, her eyes closed, listening to the rhythmic
hiss-pop of water evaporating on the heater.
One year.
It was hard to reconcile the woman sitting here—naked, sweating, and safe in one of Manhattan’s most exclusive spas—with the broken thing that had been dragged out of a cage twelve months ago.
In that year, Camila hadn’t just survived; she had conquered. She hadn’t hidden from her trauma; she had weaponized it. Her first-person exposè in The New York Times, titled "The Girl in the Giggle Room," had shattered readership records. It had ripped the veil off the city’s underground trafficking network, ending careers, launching investigations, and putting Frank Romano’s operation in the history books of horror.
Then came the book deal. "Silence is for the Dead". It had been on the Bestseller list for twenty weeks. Last week, she had taken a meeting with a producer from Warner Bros who wanted to option the film rights. They talked about casting. They threw around names like Zendaya and Ana de Armas to play her.
She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead. She had won. She had taken the worst thing that had ever happened to her and turned it into an empire of armor. She was untouchable now.
She opened her eyes, checking the hourglass on the wall. Time to go.
She wrapped her plush white towel around her body, stepping out of the sauna and into the cool, marble-lined corridor. The transition was jarring but invigorating. She walked with her head high, the conditioned flinch of the past replaced by the confident stride of a woman who owned the room.
She approached the reception desk for the spa’s treatment wing. The lighting here was soft, amber-hued, designed to lull the wealthy into a state of pliability.
The receptionist was a new face. A stunningly beautiful woman with dark hair pulled back into a severe, elegant bun. She looked up as Camila approached, her smile practiced and warm.
"Hello," Camila said. "I'm here for my appointment? Reyes."
The woman’s smile brightened, a flash of white teeth. "Of course, Ms. Reyes. Right this way, please."
She stepped out from behind the desk, her movements graceful and fluid, and gestured for Camila to follow her down a hallway lined with heavy oak doors.
"I hope you don’t mind, Ms. Reyes," the woman said, her voice a soft, melodious purr as she walked. "But when we saw your name on the booking sheet for the last slot of the day, we took the liberty of upgrading your package."
Camila suppressed a sigh. It was happening again. The celebrity tax—or rather, the celebrity dividend. Everyone wanted a piece of the survivor-heroine.
"Oh," Camila said, injecting a note of polite gratitude into her voice. "You really didn't have to go to any trouble."
"It’s no trouble at all," the woman replied, glancing back over her shoulder. "We’ve switched you to 'The Empress’s Caress.' It is is a three-hour procession of indulgence — silk-glove exfoliation, a gold-leaf body wrap, a flowing Lomi-Lomi massage with warm rose-quartz stones, and a luminous pearl-infused facial, each step designed to make a woman feel not just pampered, but enthroned. At no extra charge, of course."
"That sounds… intense," Camila said, forcing a smile. "Thank you."
They reached the end of the hall. The woman opened a heavy door, revealing a treatment room that was larger and more opulent than the others. The walls were lined with silk, and the massage table in the center looked like a cloud.
"Please," the woman said, ushering her in. "Go in and make yourself comfortable. You can leave your towel on the chair. Lie face down on the table and place your face in the cradle. Your therapist will be along presently."
"Thank you very much, Miss…" Camila paused, realizing she hadn't caught a name.
The woman beamed. "Santiago."
She gave a small bow and backed out of the room, closing the door with a soft click.
Camila was alone. The silence was absolute, save for the faint hum of the HVAC system. She dropped her towel onto the designated chair and stretched her arms over her head, feeling her spine crack in a satisfying cascade. She felt good. Strong.
She walked over to the table. A fresh, oversized towel was folded neatly at the foot. She hopped onto the plush surface, the padding sinking under her weight. She positioned herself, shivering slightly as her skin met the cool sheets, and lowered her face into the padded horseshoe of the face cradle.
Her world narrowed to a view of the dark mahogany floorboards and the brushed steel leg of the table.
She let out a long breath, willing her muscles to unspool. She reached back and awkwardly pulled the fresh towel up, draping it over her glutes and legs, covering herself from her lower back to her knees.
She closed her eyes.
Just relax, Camila. You earned this.
Minutes passed. She drifted in the sensory void, half-asleep.
Then, the door opened.
She heard the soft tread of footsteps entering the room. They were light, barely making a sound on the hardwood.
The door closed again.
Then came a sound that made her eyelids flutter open.
Click.
It wasn't the soft latch of the door handle. It was the distinct, mechanical snap of a deadbolt being thrown.
A prickle of unease danced down Camila’s spine, but she dismissed it. Privacy lock. Standard for high-end treatments.
"Good evening, Ms. Reyes," a voice purred from somewhere behind her.
It was a male voice. Smooth, cultured, but with a strange, rasping undertone that tickled a memory she couldn't quite place.
"Mmmm, good evening," Camila murmured into the face cradle, keeping her eyes closed. "Er, would you mind starting on my shoulders? I've been doing book signings all week, and my traps are absolutely killing me."
"Yes… of course," the voice replied.
A moment later, music began to play from hidden speakers. It wasn't the usual generic spa ambient loops. It was Balinese Gamelan music—rhythmic, metallic, percussive chimes that were hypnotic but also subtly discordant.
Simultaneously, a scent filled the air. Sandalwood. Heavy, cloying sandalwood oil being heated nearby. It was intense, almost suffocating.
Camila shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable. "Let me just arrange the towel, Ms. Reyes," the voice said. It was closer now. Right beside the table.
She felt hands on the towel covering her. They didn't just tuck it in. They pulled it.
The towel was drawn up, covering her upper back, and pulled down, covering her calves. She felt the fabric tighten across her body. The therapist spent a long time adjusting it, tucking it firmly under her sides, under her arms, under her thighs. It felt secure. Cocoon-like.
"Thank you," Camila mumbled into the cradle. "And thank you again for the upgrade. It really is very kind of you."
The hands stopped moving. The person stepped back.
The room was silent for a beat, the strange chiming music swelling in volume.
When the voice spoke again, the professional veneer had cracked. The smooth purr was gone, replaced by a dripping, venomous sneer that sent a bolt of ice straight through Camila’s heart.
"It was for old times' sake."
Camila’s eyes snapped open. She stared at the floorboards, her brain misfiring.
Old times' sake?
The phrase hung in the air, heavy with threat.
Then, movement.
A hand appeared in her limited field of vision. It moved under the face cradle, hovering over the floor for a casual second directly under the face cradle, palm up.
Camila stopped breathing.
The hand was pale. Veiny.
And the fingernails…
They weren't nails. They were talons. Long. Curled. Painted a glossy, midnight black. They were filed to needle-sharp points.
She knew those hands. She had seen them gesturing in the dim light of the studio. She had seen them pointing. She had felt them.
Nails.
Panic, absolute and feral, exploded in her chest.
"NO!"
She tried to launch herself off the table. She fired every muscle in her body, trying to roll, to kick, to push up.
She couldn't move.
The towel.
It wasn't just tucked in. It was cinched. The fabric was pulled tight underneath the table, locking her arms to her sides and her legs to the padding. She thrashed, her shoulders straining, but she was pinned flat, helpless as a butterfly on a board.
Then, sensation.
Heat.
Wet, heavy heat splashed onto the soles of her exposed feet.
It was thick. Viscous. It ran down her heels, pooling in her arches, sliding slickly between her toes. It smelled of sandalwood.
"WAIT!" Camila screamed, the sound muffled by the face cradle. "STOP! WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!"
The music swelled louder, the chimes crashing against each other in a chaotic rhythm.
"Miss me?" the voice whispered.
It came from the foot of the table. He was right there.
And then, contact.
Ten razor-sharp points dug into her skin.
Two hands grabbed her feet, fingers curling over the tops, thumbs digging into her soles. The talons bit in.
With a sudden, violent motion, he scraped them down the length of her feet.
From the heel, grinding over the wrinkled skin of her arches, tearing over the sensitive pads of her toes. It was a sensation of such overwhelming intensity—sharp, scraping, crushing pressure combined with the chemical heat of the oil—that it bypassed pain and went straight to shock.
"AAAAAHHHH!"
Camila screamed. A raw, tearing sound that ripped her throat.
"NO! NO! HELP ME!"
"Sssshhh," Nails hissed. "The music is loud, Your Highness. And the door is locked."
He released his grip, letting her feet hang there, throbbing, covered in the hot oil.
"Now," he murmured, his voice thick with sadistic anticipation. "If I remember correctly…"
She felt a single, sharp point touch the pad of her left big toe. He didn't scratch. He pinched it, holding it steady, bending it back.
"…the Empress has a weakness."
A second talon landed on the taut ball of her foot.
It started a slow, agonizingly deliberate spiral. It moved down from the ball into the long valley of her arch.
Camila squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking into the face cradle. She knew where he was going. She remembered. Her body remembered.
"NOT THERE!" she shrieked, thrashing against the towel, her hips bucking uselessly. "NAILS, PLEASE! NOT THERE! I'M BEGGING YOU!"
"Begging?" he chuckled. "Oooh how I missed your begging, Camila."
The nail started a wide, slow spiral between the ball of her foot and her arch.
"no-no-no please staaaaha-ha-ha-ha-ha-p don't! not there! pleeeeeeeease!"
the spiral tightened. Camila strained again, harder. Her laugher bubbling to a crecendo.
"fuck fuck fuck ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha I'll do anything! just—NOT THERE!!!"
It hit the spot. That cluster of nerves right under the ball where it meets the arch.
He didn't gouge. He didn't tear.
He scratched. Lightly. Rapidly. Back and forth.
The reaction was catastrophic. A bolt of white-hot lightning shot up her leg, exploding in her spine. It was agony. It was ecstasy. It was the most violating, unbearable sensation in the world.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!"
The scream shattered into laughter. Broken, hysterical, terrified laughter that she couldn't stop.
"FFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCK!"
She slammed her forehead against the cradle, sobbing and laughing, drool pooling on the floor.
"AAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA STAAAAAAAHHHHP!!!!" she cried, breathlessly.
Then the sensation stopped. Camila choked back sobs into the face cradle "please... Please no more"
Then Camila felt two of nails digits get between her big and second toes of her right foot and spread them.
"Not there! Not the toes! Please no!!"
"Suit yourself". Then that wicked nail was back at the spot between the ball of her foot and her arch, lightly scratching.
Camila exploded "NNOOOOOT AGAIN! NNAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA STAAA-HA-HA-HAP!! NOT THERE!"
nail lifted and instead scratched the delicate webbing between her pried open big and second toes
"NOT THE TOES! NOT THE TOOOOO-HO-HO-HOES STOP IT PLEASE!! IT TICKLES!! AAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!"
the nail lifted "pick one, Camila"
"Wh-what I... I can't... Please, no more"
Camila heard a comical sigh behind her. Then she felt the heel of his hand push against her toes, pushing them back, making her foot taut.
Then on the foot where he pushed back her toes, his nail scratched that horrible spot under the ball of her foot, at the same time she felt four sharp points scritch between her toes of her other foot.
"FFUUUUHUHUHUCK! NNNAAAAAAAAA! STAAAAAAAA! NAAAAAAILS PLEASE! HAAAAA-HAA-HAA-HAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA! NOOO-HO-HOT THE TOOO-HO-HOES!!!"
"THE BALL! THE BALL! TICKLE THE BALL HAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!!"
"Oooh wrong answer"
Then the heel of his hand lifted and she felt his talons scritch between those toes as well.
Camila screamed like a banshee and flailed on the table as those daggers lightly scratched the dense nerve clusters between her toes.
"There she is," Nails whispered, scratching harder, digging into the nerves. "This is what I missed. The book was good, Camila. But the movie? It's going to need a sequel."
