The night air is sharp enough to sting.

You don't slow down.

Gravel bites through the thin soles of your shoes as you run, breath tearing in and out of your lungs, too loud—too loud—but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the gate.

It’s open.

Not wide. Not obvious. Just enough.

It shouldn’t be.

That thought flickers—but hope crushes it instantly.

You don’t stop.

The trees thin out, the iron bars looming ahead, black against the dim wash of moonlight. Freedom is quiet. Empty. No guards. No footsteps behind you. No voice calling your name.

Too easy.

No.

Don’t think.

Just move.

You reach the gate, fingers wrapping around cold metal, shoving it wider with a harsh screech that splits the silence. You slip through, stumbling once onto the dirt road beyond—

—and freeze.

“…You were doing so well.”

The voice isn’t loud.

It doesn’t need to be.

It’s right there.

Leaning against the outer pillar of the gate, half-shadowed, like he’s always been part of it, Rafail tilts his head slightly, watching you with something dangerously close to amusement.

No anger. No urgency.

Just… patience.

Your pulse slams harder, adrenaline twisting into something colder, sharper.

“How long?” you manage, voice rough.

Rafail’s gaze flicks over you—mud on your hands, uneven breath, the wild edge in your eyes.

He smiles.

“Long enough.”

He straightens, slow, unhurried. There’s no weapon in his hands. No visible threat.

That’s what makes it worse.

You take a step back.

Then another.

“Don’t,” he says softly.

It lands like a command, not a warning.

You run.

It’s instinct. Desperation. One last, stupid attempt—

You barely make three steps.

A hand catches the back of you collar, yanking you backward so sharply the world tilts. You hit the ground hard, air punched from your lungs as gravel scrapes your palms raw.

Before you can recover, he’s there.

Not rushed. Not breathless.

Just there.

Rafail crouches beside you, fingers closing around your wrist—not tight enough to bruise, but firm enough that resistance feels pointless.

“Predictable,” he murmurs.

You jerk, trying to twist free, but his grip doesn’t falter. If anything, it adjusts—effortless, practiced.

“You let me go,” you snap, breathless, furious. “You watched—”

“Yes.”

The answer is immediate.

Calm.

You still.

Rafail studies your face like he’s looking at something mildly interesting, something that almost held his attention.

“I wanted to see if you’d do anything different this time.”

His thumb shifts slightly against your wrist—not a caress, not quite—but it lingers longer than necessary.

“You didn’t.”

Something cold coils in your stomach.

“You—” Your voice falters, then hardens. “You think this is a game.”

Rafail’s expression doesn’t change.

“It is.”

The simplicity of it is what makes it land.

Your chest tightens, anger flaring again, sharper now, desperate to cover the unease crawling under your skin.

“I’ll get out,” you say. “One day I will.”

For a moment—just a moment—Rafail goes quiet.

Not amused.

Not teasing.

Just… still.

Then he exhales softly, almost like a laugh, though there’s no real humor in it.

“You might.”

He stands, pulling you up with him in one smooth motion, your balance snapping back under the force of it.

“But not tonight.”

You try to pull away.

This time, his grip tightens.

Not enough to hurt.

Enough to remind.

Rafail leans in slightly, close enough that his voice doesn’t need to rise, close enough that you can feel the warmth of it against your skin.

“You always stop right at the edge,” he says quietly. “Like you’re waiting for something.”

A pause.

His gaze drops briefly—to your lips, your throat, then back to your eyes.

“For permission, maybe.”

The implication hits like a strike.

Your breath catches—not fear, not exactly—but something worse. Something that lingers.

Rafail’s mouth curves faintly.

Then, just as easily as it came, the moment is gone.

He turns, guiding—no, leading—them back toward the villa, grip unyielding but almost casual, like this was always how it would end.