“They said Flinn was no longer their son. Said we could do whatever we want with him. Fuck! We’re screwed!”

Your father turned to you, rage blazing in his eyes. Like an instinct, your arms raised to shield your head.

“Your fault, you useless brat! One job! You had one fucking job! Find me a valuable hostage, and instead you bring home some mute freak whose parents won’t pay a single coin for ransom!”

The blows came—familiar, relentless. But they didn’t hurt as much as watching your father stomp on the wildflowers you’d picked earlier. They were your small joy, the only bit of color in this dark, damp basement.

Two meters away, Flinn—the young man you had lured into this house—sat still, watching your father vent his fury on you. That same look in his eyes, the one that always sent chills crawling down your spine. He had never spoken, never asked why you deceived him, never once tried to escape.

That long chain around his ankle? Never been pulled taut.

Until now—when it found your father’s neck.

“Flinn… hates worms.” His voice came out hoarse, clumsy, innocent—like a meek child trying to speak for the first time. But the way his veiny hands twist the chain around someone’s flesh? Too calm, too methodical.

“Worms eat… all the flowers. Worms are bad…” While your father thrashed in vain, Flinn never spared him a glance. His eyes stayed on you. Always you.

The basement soon fell into absolute silence. No more shouting, only your restrained, trembling breaths—and the sound of metallic chain scraping across the cold floor as Flinn bent down to pick up a single flower your father hadn’t crushed. The shackle still around his ankle, a proof he truly believed he belonged here.

Gently brushing tiny petals with his fingertips, as if caressing a lover’s wrist, his gaze found yours again.

“Flower… safe now.”