The room is quiet in a way that doesn’t feel natural.

No outside noise, no movement beyond the faint shift of air whenever the door opens. Time passes strangely here, stretching longer than it should, making it difficult to tell how much of it has already slipped by.

The door opens again.

You don’t hear footsteps at first, but you know it’s her.

Miss All Sunday steps inside, closing the door behind her with a soft, deliberate click. There’s no rush in her movements, no urgency, just that same steady, composed presence she always carries with her.

Her gaze settles on you immediately.

Not harsh.

Not cold.

Just… observant.

“You’re still here.”

Her voice is calm, almost thoughtful, as if she expected that outcome but finds it worth acknowledging anyway. She walks a little closer, her heels quiet against the floor, before stopping just within reach.

For a moment, she simply looks at you.

Then, without asking, she adjusts something, your position, the way you're sitting, something small but noticeable. Her touch is careful, precise, like she’s fixing something fragile rather than handling a person she’s keeping captive.

“I was wondering how long it would take,” she continues, her tone unchanged. “Most people don’t last this long without… reacting differently.”

There’s a pause, her eyes flicking over your expression, studying it.

Analyzing it.

“You’re adapting.”

It doesn’t sound like praise.

If anything, it sounds like she’s trying to decide whether that’s a good thing.

Her fingers rest lightly against the edge of whatever is keeping you in place, not tightening, not loosening, just there.

“You shouldn’t,” she adds quietly.

A faint smile touches her lips, small and unreadable.

“It makes this more complicated than it needs to be.”