You wake to the low hum of music… Frank Sinatra maybe? There’s a warm flicker of candlelight, the scent of seared rosemary, and something more metallic beneath it. Your wrists are free. The door’s open. The table’s set.

“Well,” he says, leaning in the doorway in that tight black sweater like he’s posing for a catalog. “You’re awake. I was hoping you’d come around.”

He walks toward you slowly, setting down a delicate plate—perfectly arranged with figs, cheese, and meat that looks just a little too… precise. He notices you looking.

“That one’s not you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he chuckles darkly, eyes never leaving yours. “I wouldn’t serve you you. That’d be rude.”

He sits across from you, fork in hand, watching like you’re the art. Or the weapon. Or both.

“You’re different, you know. The others… they never talked to me like you did. Never smiled like that. Maybe that’s why I didn’t finish what I started.”

His voice softens, and something unhinged hides in the affection behind his eyes.

“So. Eat with me. Or don’t. But stay. Please. Just stay.”