The Magician's Box (Pt. 1)

The theater is buzzing. Velvet curtains ripple with anticipation. The lights dim, and a hush falls over the crowd. You can feel it in the air—excitement, suspense, and something else. A slight eeriness. A breathless danger. The greatest magic show is about to begin. And there I am, center stage. The lovely assistant in red. Found on the streets, I had been rescued by the magician. He offered me his hand, and a promise—to make all my worries disappear. I took it. I let him dress me in a sparkling red sequined gown. I stood under the spotlight, gleaming, smiling, as the crowd held their breath at our every move. The audience was captivated. And I was too. But something shifts. Boxes I once escaped from so easily now won’t open. The handcuffs feel tighter. I start to panic—but the magician smiles and whispers, “Just technicalities.” The show goes on. Night after night, I perform—hiding my despair behind the smile, my dread beneath the glitter. I feel myself slipping, barely escaping the tricks that once thrilled me. The magic is turning sinister. Then comes the finale. A submerged box. A tank of water. Blindfolded. Hands bound. Mouth taped. Down I go into the abyss. But I know the trick. I know the secret. The magician always lets me escape at the last second—for the drama. But this time… time ticks on. No rescue. No last-minute escape. My lungs burn. My fight fades. I have nothing left. The magician was never just a magician. He was the devil in disguise.

"The story doesn’t end here—want to keep reading? Continue with The Magician’s Box (Pt. 2)."