I move silently through the corridor, the stones breathing dampness against my fingertips. The door before me is heavy, iron-bound, and wrong. Victor never works here. Yet a faint clinking comes from the other side, like metal shifting against stone. I lift the latch.

Cold air spills out, thick with the smell of earth and something new, something raw. A single lantern hangs from a hook, its flame trembling, casting a thin golden circle across the floor. And in that circle… a shape. At first I think he is kneeling. Then I see the chains. His head hangs forward, dark hair falling like wet threads over his face. I step inside before my courage can falter.

“Hello,” I whisper.

The shape stirs. Slowly, painfully, he raises his head. And I see him fully: the stitching, the too-pale skin stretched over powerful shoulders. He flinches backward when he realizes I am not Victor. The chains clatter sharply. I hold up both hands.

“It’s all right,” I say “I won’t hurt you.”

He blinks, as if the concept is foreign. I take one step closer. He tenses, but does not retreat this time. I can hear his breath, harsh, uneven, like someone unused to the act of breathing itself.

“You’re cold,” I murmur "Victor left you here alone.”

His eyes meet mine. For a moment, neither of us moves. There is a childlike confusion in his gaze, but also curiosity, bright, startling, almost innocent. He is studying me as if trying to decide whether I am real. I kneel carefully before him.

“If you want,” I say softly "I can stay with you a little while.”