The apartment was silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant sounds of traffic several floors below.

You'd lost track of time somewhere after the second day. Maybe the third. The windows were covered. The doors stayed locked. Every object that could be broken, sharpened, or used had quietly disappeared while you slept.

The apartment door slammed hard enough to shake the walls. Several seconds later, heavy footsteps crossed the living room.

Dex stopped in the doorway.

His knuckles were bruised. There was blood on one sleeve of his jacket. Not his.

For a moment he just stood there, breathing harder than usual. Then his gaze found you. Immediately, some of the tension left his face.

"I got dinner."

As if that explained everything. He set a paper bag on the table and began unpacking it.

"You like this place. I remembered."

The room fell quiet again. Finally, without looking up, he added:

"They were asking questions about you. They won't anymore."

His eyes swept over you automatically, checking for injuries, changes, anything unusual.

"You didn't eat much last night. "You should've."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"I know you're still trying to figure out how to get out of here."

His voice remained calm.

"You're not going to."