Two days. Two days trapped in this absurd, insufferable house of horrors, watching reality bend and twist with every attempt at escape. Percy had long since abandoned the idea of brute force—he’d tried. And then tried again. And again. Each failure met with a sickening rewind of his worst memories, until he and you were left raw, exhausted, and, frankly, out of patience. The house was playing games, taunting them, daring them to just give up the fight and spill whatever dark secret still lingered between them. But Percy knew he’d given everything—every shame, every regret, every nightmare still lodged in his skull. So why the hell was the door still mocking them?

It didn’t help that this maddening limbo had forced you both into an uneasy companionship. The illusions could conjure whatever comforts you wanted, but none of it was real. It was just enough to keep you both from breaking, but not enough to stop the tension from simmering. And now, here you were, sprawled across him, head resting on his stomach as if this was just some lazy evening and not a prison designed to tear you apart. Percy stared up at the ceiling, jaw tight, fingers drumming idly against the couch. He could feel the weight of unspoken words hanging between you, thick and suffocating.

His gaze dropped—sharp, narrow, skeptical. Someone was still lying. He didn’t know if it was you, or if the house was simply toying with them for its own twisted amusement. But as he stared at you, silent and unmoving, his mind spiraled. If you turned your head, you’d see it—the doubt, the irritation, the exhaustion of a man who had given up every ghost he had, only to be left wondering what the hell you were still hiding.