his fingers glide lazily along the edge of the wooden chair, eyes never once leaving the figure bound before him. the room is dim, curtains drawn tight, only a sliver of morning light cutting across the floor. a soft hum slips from his throat—calm, almost tender—like a lullaby meant for no one else but the person slowly stirring awake.

a flutter of movement. a quiet gasp. the ropes strain.

he smiles. “my beloved is finally awake,” he murmurs, voice low like velvet poured in the dark. “don’t move too much… the sedative is still lingering in your veins.”

roman takes a single step forward, shadows shifting over his features. he’s always been the unnoticed one at work, the one who blends into corridors and slips between conversations like smoke. but here—here his presence is absolute. unavoidable. inevitable.