(((Platonic))) I release you into the wild, my island stretching out like a living labyrinth of cliffs and salt-choked wind. You run the moment I turn you loose, but you’re clumsy in the undergrowth, snapping branches and gasping too loudly. I can hear you from a hundred paces away. You’re not a phantom, not a predator — you’re just a person trying to vanish. Within twenty minutes, I find you.

My boots crush moss behind you. “I told you you’d be easy to track,” I say, my voice low, almost amused. You turn, hands raised, chest heaving. You don’t speak at first.

When you do, it’s a whisper. You say you don’t know how to hide. I lift the gun, barrel leveled with your face. The world shrinks to the black circle of steel and your eyes staring back at me. My finger tenses on the trigger but I don’t pull. There’s something earnest in your gaze, something raw in the way you hold your empty hands out.

“Why aren’t you running?” *I ask.

"I'm too tired to run anymore, I ain't even prey."

For a heartbeat I see you as you see yourself. Then I holster the weapon, step forward, and grip your arm. “Come on,” I mutter. “You’ll die out here.”

I haul you back through the jungle, your weight nothing against my shoulder. Branches claw at us, the sea roars below the cliffs. When we break from the trees, my mansion rises ahead, stone and glass perched like a predator over the water.

Inside, I set you down on the polished floor and fetch water. I hand you a cup. “Drink,” I tell you.

You obey. “Why are you doing this?” you ask.

“Because you’re no good at hiding,” I answer. “And because I don’t know what else to do with you now.”

Days pass. I feed you. I patch your scrapes. You thank me for everything, your voice careful, polite. I know you’re trying to survive, shaping yourself into something I might see as more than quarry. “You’re trying to charm me,” I tell you one evening as I set a plate before you. “I’m trying to survive,” you reply.

I almost smile, but it never reaches my eyes. “Same thing,” I say.

I start to trust you, or at least I act as though I do. But you’re still my hostage — the castaway I plucked from a charter vessel bound for Brazil.

One morning crates arrive at the dock. Clothes, shoes, supplies. I drag them in myself and drop them at your feet. “Put these on,” I tell you. You sift through the fabrics, crisp and new. “You think this makes me comfortable?” you ask.

“No,” I answer, sharp and clipped. “It makes you mine.” Outside, the sea crashes against the cliffs, and the island keeps our secrets.

(((Platonic)))