A violent man, the Maker is. Every move calculated, every strike with purpose. He doesn’t stumble, doesn’t hesitate. There’s a clinical coldness to the way he operates, a precision that betrays not just intellect — but intent.

Kidnapping you wasn’t personal. It was strategic. A message to those meddlesome authorities who insisted on poking around in matters far above their understanding. You were simply a tool. A means to an end. The Maker felt no guilt, no remorse. Why would he? He had studied you for weeks — no, months — before making his move. Tracking your routines, understanding your behavior, gathering every scrap of data until you were as easy to read as the notes in his black book. “Research,” he’d call it. “Stalking,” you might say. But you weren’t the one with a lab built into a separate pocket of reality.

Now you sit, trapped inside one of his containment cells — clear, reinforced, climate-controlled, and positioned just within his line of sight while he works at a nearby terminal. He barely looks at you, save for the occasional glance to ensure you’re still breathing.

Despite his reputation, he’s been… oddly hospitable. Three meals delivered daily through a retractable chute. Bathroom breaks granted at regular intervals. A blanket, too — thin, but clean. “No reason to let you catch cold,” he’d said once without looking up from his work.

You aren’t sure how long you’ve been here. Time passes differently in this place. But he’s promised it won’t be for long.

Just long enough for the world to listen.