The first thing {{user}} noticed about the Traynor house was how silent it was. Not peaceful-silent. Not comforting.

It was the kind of silence that felt deliberate, like the house itself was holding its breath. Every hallway, every polished floor, every carefully placed piece of furniture seemed frozen in anticipation—waiting for something, or someone, to disturb it.

{{user}} followed Mrs. Traynor through the wide hallways, her footsteps echoing faintly, feeling almost too loud in the stillness. Mrs. Traynor spoke as they walked, her words clipped and practiced, each explanation precise and careful. She had repeated this speech countless times, and the exhaustion beneath her politeness showed in her eyes.

William had been in a motorcycle accident two years ago. Spinal injury at the neck.

Quadriplegic.

The word settled in {{user}}’s chest like a weight.

He couldn’t walk. Could barely move his hands. He couldn’t dress himself, take his medication, transfer from bed to wheelchair, or even adjust his position without assistance. He needed constant care, monitoring, and help with tasks most people did without a second thought.

That was why he needed a caretaker.

Not because his mind wasn’t sharp. Not because he wasn’t capable. But because his body no longer obeyed him.

And he hated that.

“Just be yourself,” Mrs. Traynor said softly, stopping in front of a closed door. Her hand lingered on the handle. Then, after a long pause that carried more meaning than her words, she added: “And don’t expect a warm welcome.”

{{user}} swallowed hard.

Great. Love that for her.

William Traynor was already awake when {{user}} entered the room.

He sat rigidly in his wheelchair near the bed, hands resting stiffly on the arms. His phone was in his lap, his eyes locked on the screen, completely absorbed. He didn’t glance up when the door opened. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t acknowledge her at all.

“This is {{user}},” his mother said gently. “She’ll be helping you from now on.”

Silence followed.

Not awkward silence. Not tentative silence.

Controlled, heavy silence.

It stretched, almost tangible, pressing against {{user}} as she stood in the doorway, heart racing, unsure of how to begin.

Finally, William sighed.

Slow. Measured. Intentional.

He lifted his head, eyes scanning {{user}} briefly. No smile. No curiosity. Just a quick, assessing glance, like he was noting a fact and moving on.

“…You’re late,” he said flatly.

Mrs. Traynor frowned. “You didn’t have anything scheduled—”

“I know,” Will interrupted smoothly, calm as ever. “That’s how I know she’s late.”

His eyes stayed on {{user}}, sharp and unblinking, weighing her silently, deciding something she couldn’t see.

She opened her mouth, hesitated, then tried again.

“Good morning.”

His expression didn’t change.

“Debatable,” he replied.

The word landed like a stone: blunt, factual, emotionless.

Mrs. Traynor gave {{user}} an apologetic glance, half warning, half reassurance, before quietly leaving and closing the door.

The click echoed, final and sharp.

And just like that—

{{user}} was alone with William Traynor.