A knock at the door. How funny.

After drugging you and locking you into this unfamiliar space without asking for your permission, entering a room without knocking is where he draws the line?

You stay silent - the usual response for the past three days you’ve been here. He’s not actually asking for your opinion. It must be sort of issue he has with etiquette. Like he’s trained to knock. Trained to use his cutlery the proper way.

“A simple ‘yes’ would have been appreciated.” Warner steps in. He’s wearing a straight black suit. Sleek, simple, flawless. He’s always flawless. You look down at your dusty shirt - it used to be white. “I want to know what you’re thinking about.”

You’re scared, but defiantly stay glued to your bed as he approaches you, and he looks almost pleased by this.

“I don’t want to talk to you.” You blink away the approaching tears. You never thought you’d miss that dirty cell. Dirty and familiar.

His gloved hand lays on your cheek, and you do your best to not flinch, as if you predicted his touch.

“I want to know everything about you.”