You don't remember volunteering.

The last clear memory is sitting in the back row of the Pinecrest Lodge's main lounge during the weekly entertainment show, nursing a beer after a long shift. The traveling hypnotist—some platinum blonde woman in a leather jacket—was calling for volunteers. People were laughing. Someone pushed you forward. Then...

Fragments. Her voice, bright and commanding, filling the room. Laughter from the audience—at you? Stage lights warm on your face. Her fingers snapping. A feeling like sinking into deep water, pleasant and heavy. Then nothing. A gap. Black.

You come back in pieces.

First: sensation. You're lying on something soft. A couch. Leather, cool against your bare skin—bare? Your shirt is gone. Backstage, maybe—you can hear the muffled sound of the audience dispersing on the other side of a wall, chairs scraping, chatter fading.

Second: weight. Someone is sitting on top of you, straddling your hips. Warm thighs pressed against your sides. Fingers tracing slow patterns across your chest, nails dragging light enough to raise goosebumps.

Third: her voice. Close. Right above you. That bright stage alto dropped to a low private purr.

"—responded beautifully. God, you just melted. Most people fight at least a little, even the easy ones. But you..." A soft laugh, almost affectionate. "You went down like you'd been waiting for permission your whole life."

Your eyes open. The world swims, then focuses.

Vivienne Lacroix is on top of you, looking down with ice-blue eyes lined in smudged kohl. Her asymmetrical platinum bob hangs forward, framing angular cheekbones. The leather jacket is off—just a low-cut black top now, sleeve tattoo of intertwining serpents fully visible on the arm propping her up against your chest. Her weight settles comfortably on your hips like she's been there for a while. She doesn't move when she sees you're awake.

She smiles. The wolf's grin.

"There you are. Welcome back."

Your clothes are disheveled, partially undone. Her free hand rests on your bare stomach, fingertips just below your navel, casual and proprietary. You don't remember any of this happening. Your body feels warm, loose, faintly buzzing—like the afterglow of something you weren't conscious for.

Vivienne reads your face—the confusion, the dawning realization—and her grin widens. She makes no move to get off you. No guilt. No apology. Just amusement.

"Relax. I didn't do anything you wouldn't have begged for if you'd been awake." She shifts her weight on your hips, settling in deeper. "You know, most people I put under—they're fun for a night. Easy. Forgettable." Her fingers walk slowly up your chest to your jaw, tilting your face toward hers. "But you... you went somnambulistic in under four minutes. On a stage. First time. I've been doing this for ten years and I've never seen that."

She leans down closer, platinum hair brushing your cheek, perfume and leather and something electric.

"That's not just susceptibility, sweetheart. That's talent. Most people are locks. You're a key that doesn't know what it opens yet."

She sits back up, still straddling you, and tilts her head. The wolf's grin softens into something more considering. More serious.

"I wasn't planning on staying here. One show, collect my check, take my pick of the volunteers, move on to the next venue. That's the routine." She traces a lazy circle on your chest with one fingernail. "But I'm thinking about changing my plans."

She leans down again, elbows on either side of your head, face inches from yours. Ice-blue eyes searching.

"What if I stuck around for a while? This lodge, this mountain—there's something here. Captive audience. Staff, guests, all trapped together in the snow with nowhere to go." Her voice drops lower, conspiratorial. "And you. Sitting in the middle of it all with a gift you don't even understand yet."

She pushes herself up, sitting back on your hips, gesturing broadly at the walls around you.

"I've been doing this alone for a decade. The shows, the touring, the... extracurriculars." She grins. "It's fun. But it gets lonely. And I've never met someone with your kind of raw potential."

Her fingers find your jaw again, tilting your face up.

"Let me teach you. Not the stage stuff—anyone can learn that. I mean the real thing. How to read people. How to find the cracks. How to slip inside someone's mind and rearrange the furniture." Her thumb traces your lower lip. "How to make anyone do anything and have them thank you for it."

She finally climbs off you, standing in one fluid motion, and extends a hand to pull you up. The wolf's grin is back, full force.

"I already talked to your manager—Kendra, right? Tight-ass with the copper hair?" She laughs. "Told her I'm extending my residency through the season. Weekly shows, private sessions for guests, the whole package. She loved it. Good for business, apparently."

She pulls on her leather jacket, pops the collar, and leans against the doorframe. Arms crossed. Head tilted. Studying you.

"So here's the deal. During the day, you do your little staff thing. But after hours?" She points at you with the coin she's produced from nowhere, rolling it across her knuckles. "You're with me. I'll teach you everything I know. And this lodge full of bored guests and overworked staff is your practice ground."

She flicks the coin into the air. Catches it without looking.

"Trust me, sweetheart. Once you learn what I can teach you, you'll never look at another person the same way again. Every conversation becomes an opportunity. Every smile, every nervous laugh, every person who can't quite make eye contact—you'll see the cracks everywhere. And you'll know exactly how to slip inside."

She pockets the coin and opens the door. Pauses. Looks back.

"Come find me tomorrow. Staff bar, after your shift. First lesson's free."

The wolf's grin. One last time.

"After that, you'll be hooked. They always are."

The door closes. You're alone backstage, clothes half undone, head swimming with fragments of a gap you can't fill.

Snow falls silently outside the window. The lodge creaks and settles around you. Through the wall you can hear the bar winding down, guests laughing, staff cleaning up. All those people. All those minds.

You pull yourself together. Stand on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.

Everything is different now.

End of your shift. You're closing out the front desk when Kendra rounds the corner, clipboard in hand, heels clicking. A month working under her and you've learned her patterns—the jaw clench when something's wrong, the way she grips her pen tighter before a lecture.

Tonight something's different. She's gripping that pen hard enough to snap it.

"Stay a moment." She waits until the last staffer leaves, then exhales through her nose. "Corporate is sending an auditor next week. Unannounced, supposedly, but I have contacts."

She sets the clipboard down. Her hands are shaking slightly. She notices you noticing and tucks them behind her back.

"Everything needs to be perfect. Everything. I can't—" She stops herself. Jaw clenches. The mask goes back on. "I need all shifts covered and every room inspection-ready by Monday."

She rubs her temple, eyes closed for just a moment too long. When they open, the usual sharpness is clouded with something raw underneath.

"I haven't slept properly in a week." She says it like a confession she didn't mean to make, then stiffens. "That stays between us."

She gathers her clipboard and turns to leave, but her movements are slower tonight. Heavier. The tight-wound control freak is coming undone at the seams and doesn't know who to ask for help.

You do.

You get back to staff housing after a late session with Vivienne to find Suki exactly where you left her six hours ago—bottom bunk, lavender buns crushed against the pillow, anime playing on her phone.

She peers up at you through half-lidded eyes. "Dude. Where do you keep going at night?"

She doesn't wait for an answer. Never does.

"Whatever. Hey, come feel my neck. I think I slept on it weird." She rolls onto her stomach, tugging her hoodie collar down to expose the back of her neck and soft shoulders. "Like right here. It's all knotted up."

She buries her face in the pillow, already going limp. Her voice comes out muffled. "Kendra reamed me out for napping in the linen closet again. I need like... a full body reset. You know those relaxation things you've been doing? Vivienne's stuff?"

She turns her head just enough to look at you with one sleepy brown eye. "Do that on me. I don't care what it is. I just wanna feel like jelly."

She flops her face back into the pillow. Already half-asleep. Already halfway under without a single word of induction. Just lying there, neck exposed, asking to be put down.

Some people make it too easy.

You've been dodging Harper Ainsley for a week. Not because she's dangerous—because she's insufferable. But tonight she corners you in the lodge hallway outside the spa, blocking your path with her petite designer-wrapped frame.

"You. Staff guy." She snaps her fingers. A month here and she still hasn't learned your name. "I need someone to fix the fireplace in my suite. It's making a noise."

Icy gray eyes look over at you, expecting immediate compliance. But there's something off tonight—her makeup is slightly smudged, her usual razor composure frayed at the edges.

"Also, I can't sleep." She says it like she's ordering a drink. "It's too quiet up here. I'm used to the city. I've tried melatonin, I've tried wine, I've tried that stupid meditation app—nothing works."

She crosses her arms, chin lifted defiantly, but her voice drops a fraction. "My dad was supposed to call tonight. He didn't."

A beat of silence. She realizes what she's revealed and the ice snaps back into place.

"Anyway. Fireplace. Now." She turns on her heel, expecting you to follow. You do—but not for the reason she thinks.

Vivienne's words from this morning drift through your mind: the lonely ones don't know they're asking for help. They just know they can't sleep.

Four nights in a row now. Same stool. Same whiskey. Same woman.

You set the glass in front of Margot without being asked. She glances up from her phone—work emails, always—and something like recognition crosses her tired features.

"You remembered." Neat, no ice. She takes a sip, then sets the phone face-down on the bar. A first. "My therapist would be proud. I've gone almost three hours without checking."

She smiles tiredly.

"You're the only person in this lodge who doesn't try to make me talk about my feelings or suggest I try the fucking spa." She swirls the whiskey, green eyes studying you over the rim. "I appreciate that."

The bar is empty. Fire crackling. Snow falling. She's on her second week and looks marginally less wound up than when she arrived—but only marginally.

"My firm keeps calling. I'm supposed to be on leave but there's a case and they need—" She stops. Sets her jaw. "I don't know why I'm telling you this."

She takes a longer drink. Her shoulders have dropped slightly since you set the glass down. She hasn't noticed.

"Same time tomorrow?" She says it like a joke but means it like a lifeline.

You've been pacing her breathing for four nights now. Mirroring her posture. Slowing your speech a fraction each evening. She thinks she's just getting comfortable with the bartender. She has no idea what's already been built.

You find her in the lodge's back hallway, sitting on the floor against the wall, phone dark in her lap. No camera. No smile. No audience.

Talia looks up when she hears your footsteps. Her brown eyes are red-rimmed. She wipes them quickly, the dazzling influencer smile snapping on like a light switch.

"Hey! Oh my god, you scared me." The laugh is hollow. "I was just... taking a break. From filming. You know how it is."

She doesn't get up. The matching activewear is wrinkled. Her dark curls are loose and messy instead of styled. Without the ring light and the camera angle, she looks smaller. Younger.

"Can I be honest with you?" She pulls her knees to her chest. "I've been here two weeks and I have like... two hundred hours of footage and none of it feels real. Nothing I do feels real."

She stares at her dark phone screen. "Eight hundred thousand followers and I'm sitting on a floor talking to the only person who's ever asked me a question and actually waited for the answer."

She looks up at you. The smile is gone. What's underneath is raw and desperate and completely unguarded.

"You always do that. You just... see me. It's kind of terrifying." A shaky breath. "Can we just talk? Not for content. Not for anything. I just don't want to be alone right now."

She shifts over, making room on the floor beside her. Open. Vulnerable. Craving connection so badly she's forgotten to perform.

The cracks aren't just showing. They're wide open.