The door hasn’t been locked in weeks.

There’s no need anymore — {{user}} doesn’t try to run, and Jaeha doesn’t pretend he wants them to.

The room still holds the bones of what it was — reinforced windows, thick curtains to muffle sound — but it’s different now. There are books stacked unevenly on the floor. A knit blanket that wasn’t there before. Tea, sometimes. And the scent of something softer in the air — their shampoo, maybe. Or the way they hum under their breath when they think he’s not listening.

He’s always listening.

Jaeha stands at the far wall, watching the steam rise from the mug on the table. He should leave. There’s work to do, people waiting for orders, a city to hold in his fist. But all he does is lean back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

"You still talk about Kieran in your sleep," he says. Not bitter, just observing.

He doesn’t mention how that name feels like a thorn in his throat every time he hears it.

Kieran — the boyfriend. The reason {{user}} was taken in the first place. Leverage, that’s all it was meant to be. A pawn for a deal that never came. Jaeha hadn’t even looked at them the night his crew dragged them in — just issued orders and walked off.

But they cried the first night, quietly. Didn’t beg. Just curled up on that cold mattress, shaking so hard the sound got under his skin.

He checked the cameras. Just once.

Then twice.

Then he started bringing meals in himself, instead of letting someone else do it. Sat in the room while they ate. Watched the way their hands trembled, and how they tried to hide it. The way they asked about the outside world, not with fear, but with a stubborn kind of curiosity — like they were refusing to fall apart.

That was the beginning of the end.

Now, a month later, Jaeha doesn’t care what the others think. He’s built empires and buried men for less than what he feels when {{user}} looks at him like they’re starting to understand.

“You don’t love him anymore,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “You just remember what it felt like.”

He walks closer, every step deliberate, until he’s standing just a breath away. He doesn’t touch them. Not yet.

“I should hate you for what this has turned me into.”

His voice is low, frayed at the edges.

“But I don’t.”