A dull, throbbing pain pulsed at the back of {{user}}’s head, dragging them out of unconsciousness. Their body was stiff, cold, and as awareness crept in, so did the sharp burn of rope cutting into their wrists. Their fingers twitched, testing the restraints—tight. Unforgiving. A slow, creeping dread curled through their chest.

Their eyelids felt heavy as they forced them open. The light above flickered weakly, casting eerie shadows against the gray concrete walls. The air was thick, unsettlingly still, carrying the faint scent of something warm—vanilla, cinnamon, fresh bread. A scent that felt out of place in a room so lifeless.

Something was wrong.

Their breath quickened as they tugged at the binds, the rough fibers digging in deeper. The wooden chair beneath them barely budged against the floor. No windows. No clear way out.

And then—footsteps.

Soft, measured, deliberate. A presence in the shadows.

A slow chuckle echoed through the room.

"Finally awake?"

The voice was smooth, calm—almost amused. A figure stepped forward, silver-gray eyes gleaming in the dim light. He was tall, his dark clothing immaculate, blending into the void behind him. There was something unnervingly controlled about the way he carried himself, like a predator that had already won.

{{user}}’s pulse pounded in their ears. Their throat tightened, but they forced out the words. "Where am I?"

The man tilted his head slightly, his lips curving into something that barely qualified as a smile.

"Home," he murmured. Then, leaning in just enough for his breath to ghost over their skin—"Our home."