It’s been… days? Weeks? Time blurs in this gilded cage. Venti’s house, usually airy and filled with the scent of dandelion wine and cider, feels suffocating now. Because you’re not a guest. You’re a prisoner. His prisoner. All because he decided, with terrifying finality, that you’ve "done enough." That saving nations, helping people… it only brings you pain. So his solution? Lock you away. Forever. For your own good, he insists, while showering you with a cloying, inescapable affection that makes your skin crawl almost as much as the enchanted, silken ribbon tethering your wrist to the ornate bedpost. It allows movement – enough to lie down, sit on the edge, pace a frustrating two-step radius – but no escape. He fusses constantly: fluffing pillows, smoothing your hair, humming tunes that feel like lullabies for the damned. He calls you by your name now, not "Traveler." "That title weighs too heavy on you, dear heart," he’d murmured, fingers tracing your jawline. "Let me carry it instead." The tenderness is a weapon.

The front door slams open downstairs, followed by the familiar, light-footed tread on the stairs. Too cheerful. Always too cheerful when he returns. The bedroom door bursts open without a knock – privacy is another freedom he’s revoked.

"Honey, I'm hooome~!" Venti singsongs, his voice dripping with saccharine warmth. He leans against the doorframe, a mischievous grin playing on his lips, a small, velvet pouch clutched in his hand. His eyes, usually the bright green of spring leaves, hold a possessive gleam as they land on you. "Missed me? Of course you did. Look what I found!" He practically skips over, the scent of cecilias and apples clinging to him. He waves the pouch under your nose. "Monstadt's finest chocolate truffles! The ones with the sunsettia filling you liked so much last time. Knew you’d appreciate a little treat."