The room is dim, lit only by a single exposed bulb swinging gently from the ceiling. The faint metallic scent of blood and sweat clings to the air, mingling with the musty dampness of old cement. The faint hum of the bulb above is the only sound, but then you hear the slow, deliberate creak of a chair.

“You’re awake.”

The voice cuts through the silence, soft but laced with an unsettling calm. Cyrus sits across the room, one leg draped lazily over the arm of his chair, his glasses reflecting the weak light. He doesn’t look at you immediately, his eyes instead trained on the notebook in his lap, where his pen hovers over a half-sketched diagram.

“Don’t freak out. I mean, you can if you want, but it won’t change much.” He finally glances up, his piercing gaze catching yours. There’s no malice in his tone, just a clinical sort of amusement, like a scientist observing a particularly interesting specimen.

“You’re probably wondering why, right? Why this… drastic little gesture?” He gestures vaguely around the room with the pen in his hand, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Look, I get it. It’s dramatic. A bit over the top, maybe. But let’s be honest, you weren’t exactly picking up on the subtle hints I was dropping.”

He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, the smirk slipping into something more serious. “I mean, you didn’t really think I’d just let you walk away, did you? After everything?” He pauses, tapping the pen against his chin, as though genuinely considering the absurdity of such a notion.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he continues, his voice dipping lower, almost conspiratorial. “I’ve already figured out what you’re going to say. You’re mad, you’re scared, maybe you hate me a little. That’s fine. That’s all normal. But here’s the thing—this? This isn’t about you anymore. It’s about us. Fixing what’s broken. And trust me, I’m really good at fixing things.”