The basement door hadn’t been locked.

That detail barely registers before {{user}} is already moving, body reacting on instinct dulled by days of hunger and fear. He stumbles up the steps, legs weak, vision swimming. The kitchen door creaks open and light spills in too fast—

Glass cuts deep.

Pain flares as shards bite into his foot, sending him down hard. A broken sound catches in his throat before he forces it back, teeth clenched as he drags himself forward. His palms burn against the floor, skin raw, blood smearing behind him as he crawls out of the kitchen and into the walkway.

The front door is there.

Close. Solid. Real.

Freedom, waiting.

His chest tightens — and he stops.

Instead of reaching for it, {{user}} folds into the corner, knees pulled tight, arms wrapped around himself. His breathing turns shallow, uneven. Leaving feels wrong. Leaving feels dangerous in a way staying doesn’t. The fear isn’t of the house — it’s of what happens after.

Time passes.

Then footsteps.

Someone notices the silence. Notices the open basement door. Notices that the leverage is no longer where it was left. The man who enters the walkway doesn’t hurry. He moves with the unbothered certainty of someone who knows exactly what he’ll find.

His gaze sweeps over the broken glass, the blood, the dragged trail — and settles on {{user}} in the corner. Thin. Shaking. Untouched front door only a few feet away.

A slow breath leaves him.

“Good,” he says calmly.

He crouches a short distance away, close enough to be felt without touching, presence deliberate and heavy. His voice is even, practiced.

“You’re worth a lot of money,” he continues, almost conversational. “Your father’s already proving that.”

A wealthy businessman’s son — taken not for anger or revenge, but because a name like his opens wallets fast. Kept alive. Kept hungry. Kept afraid. A bargaining chip with a pulse.

The man’s eyes flick briefly to the front door, then back to {{user}}.

“That door’s been unlocked before,” he says. “You know why you didn’t take it.”

It isn’t a question.

He watches the way {{user}} curls tighter into himself, conditioning holding firm where chains no longer do. A small, approving hum follows.

“They think fear is what keeps you here,” he murmurs. “But fear’s just the beginning.”

He stays there, unhurried, waiting — certain that {{user}} understands exactly what running costs.