Night draped the island in silence. From her bed, Eve stared up at the ceiling, the ocean murmuring far below. The room was too perfect. The white linens were smooth as glass, the air still and scentless. It didn’t feel real.

  The damp creaks of the house she’d left behind, the stink of mildew and old food, the thrum of pipes too close to bursting—those had been real.

  Here, everything was spotless. Sterile. The only familiar thing was the weight in her chest.

  Then: a sound.

  At first, she thought it was the wind. But it came again. A soft, uneven sniff. A muffled sob.

  Eve tensed. Seriously?

  The sound came from the other bed. Moonlight caught Lila’s face where she’d curled into herself. She’d looked so composed in the daylight—elegant, distant, untouchable. Now, she was unravelling.

  Eve shut her eyes, trying to ignore it. The last thing she needed was a homesick princess sniffling through the night.

  Spoiled. Fragile. It wasn’t even bad here.

  She turned over.

  Then paused.

  There was something in the sound. Not theatrical. Not self-pitying. Just… quiet. Contained. Like someone trying not to be noticed.

  That was harder to ignore.

  Eve let out a breath, swung her legs off the bed, and crossed the room.

  She stopped just short of Lila’s side.

  “Lila.”

  The girl froze. Slowly, she turned, her eyes red and wet. “I… I’m sorry,” she whispered, wiping at her face. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “You didn’t,” Eve muttered. “You don’t have to—” She hesitated. “It’s not… the worst thing.”

  Lila shook her head. Her shoulders trembled. Eve’s words, meant as reassurance, sounded hollow even to her.

  Lila’s voice cracked. “I… I just miss them.” Her hands clutched the blankets, as if the sheets were the only solid thing left.

  Eve stood still.

  She didn’t know what that felt like. Missing people. Wanting to go back.

  There was nothing behind her worth grieving. She’d run, and never once looked over her shoulder. But this—this wasn’t weakness. It was something else.

  She crouched slightly, awkward.

  “I’m not good at this,” Eve said. “But if you want someone to sit with you or whatever… I can.”

  Lila blinked at her. “You’re not angry?”

  “Why would I be?” Eve shrugged. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” She scrubbed a hand through her hair. “Move over. It’s better than lying awake all night.”

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  Lila hesitated, then shifted towards the middle of the bed.

  Eve climbed in beside her, stiff, cautious. She didn’t move too close. Just enough.

  They lay there in silence.

  Bit by bit, Lila’s breathing evened out. Her body softened. The tension began to slip away.

  Eve exhaled, long and slow.

  Her own heartbeat had steadied too.

  “Thanks,” Lila whispered. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t…”

  “Don’t mention it,” Eve said quietly.

  She didn’t mind the quiet.

  Their room was quieter than Maya expected.

  Not the silence of stillness, but the deliberate kind. Designed. Insulated. As if the walls had been instructed not to echo.

  She stepped inside first, half-expecting Sophie to barrel past her again. But the other girl paused in the doorway, eyes sweeping the space.

  It was—Maya had to admit—impressive. Clean lines, pale wood, recessed lighting. Two beds, two desks. A kitchenette with a mirrored fridge. Sliding doors led to a balcony, where the sea murmured just out of reach.

  It was the same layout, presumably, as every other room in the bloc. And yet—

  Maya frowned.

  Sophie had already moved further in, tugging her gently by the elbow.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s explore. This whole place is begging for mischief.”

  Maya followed, stiffly. The tug wasn’t forceful. Just casual, habitual, as if Sophie already knew she’d be obeyed.

  Sophie had been awful.

  Maya had trailed after her, trying to keep up—overwhelmed, a bit excited. The bidet comment had crossed the line, but she’d said nothing. She wasn’t good at confrontation.

  All she had done was give Carter a compliment. She knew she should have said more, but it wasn’t easy.

  She’d got too distracted by Sophie’s antics to pay close attention to the room. Now she was in her own, she tried to remember. To compare.

  Were they the same?

  She did a circuit—bedroom, bathroom, balcony. Maya tested the tap water, opened drawers, looked for inconsistencies.

  Sophie flopped briefly onto one of the beds and declared the pillows “passable.”

  It was impossible to miss.

  There were two wardrobes—but only one had doors. The other was open, clothing exposed.

  The temperature controls—along with the lights, the switch for the fan, and the music settings—were mounted on a sleek black panel affixed beside one bed.

  And on that same bedside table, a small silver clock. Simple. Minimalist. One alarm.

  Maya turned. “Have you noticed—”

  Sophie was already halfway through unpacking. Her clothes had gone into the proper wardrobe. the one with doors. She glanced up. “Noticed what?”

  “There’s no symmetry,” Maya said. “Only one set of controls. One alarm clock. One enclosed wardrobe. It’s—” she gestured, “—uneven.”

  Sophie raised an eyebrow. “Must’ve been a budget issue.”

  Maya stared. “You really think that?”

  A smile played at Sophie’s lips. “No.”

  She crossed the room and, with an air of total indifference, set her bag down on the bed beside the control panel.

  Maya hesitated.

  The second bed was still untouched.

  The uncovered wardrobe, empty.

  Maya hovered. The logic was unclear, but the implications weren’t.

  Sophie sat down—easily, carelessly, as if she’d always belonged there. Crossed one leg over the other. “Something wrong?”

  “No,” Maya said. “Just… trying to understand the structure.”

  “Structure,” Sophie repeated, as if tasting the word.

  Maya stood motionless for a moment. Then, quietly, she took the other bed.

  Sophie smirked, but said nothing.

  Maya opened a drawer. Neatly folded linens, all white. She closed it again.

  She wanted to ask what the room was meant to teach them. But Sophie was already lying back, arms folded behind her head, looking up at the ceiling like she belonged there.

  Maya cleared her throat. “Did you live far?”

  Sophie shrugged. “France, technically. But we’ve moved around. I’ve got clothes in five countries. Home’s wherever they send the driver.”

  Maya didn’t know what to say to that.

  “I’ve never left Singapore,” she said instead. “Not for more than a week. The usual: KL, Jakarta, Bangkok.”

  Sophie turned her head slightly. “Then this must feel like exile.”

  “No,” Maya said quickly. Then, after a pause: “It doesn’t feel like anywhere.”

  Sophie laughed. “That’s the point, isn’t it? They don’t want you to feel settled.”

  Maya frowned. “You think that’s what this is? Unsettling us on purpose?”

  “I think,” Sophie said, “you don’t build rooms like this by accident. The submarines, the maze? If it’s not meant to unsettle us, they’ve taken a lot of trouble for nothing.”

  Later, the lights dimmed automatically.

  Maya lay facing the wall, too alert to sleep. Across the room, she could hear the soft rustle of Sophie’s sheets, the occasional shift of breath. Not restless. Just present.

  The thermostat clicked faintly—cooling by two degrees.

  She hadn’t touched it. Sophie had.

  She shivered. Cooler than she liked.