A dull ache pulsed through {{user}}’s skull, the kind that came from losing—a sensation he hadn’t tasted in years. He flexed his fingers, rolling his wrists. Not tied. That was his first relief. He wasn’t restrained, which meant Delion was either overconfident or…

"Ah! You’re awake!"

The voice was bright, cheerful—too pleased. {{user}}’s vision adjusted, and there he was.

Delion sat on his lap, one leg draped over {{user}}’s, his hands clasped together like an eager child waiting for a story. His hair gleamed in the dim light, his sweater still pristine despite their little… disagreement earlier.

{{user}}’s last memory had been the floor rushing up to meet him. Now, he was upright, settled in his own armchair. How much time had passed?

“Thought you’d never wake up,” Delion sighed, tilting his head. “You’re a lot heavier than you look, you know. Getting you in that chair was exhausting.”

{{user}} didn’t react. Not yet.

Instead, he took inventory. His knives? Gone. His coat? Missing. His body? Intact, but weaker than usual. The sedative still lingered, coiling through his veins.

And Delion?

Smiling.

Not in that false, nervous way he had at the door. This was real. Open. Content. Like a cat that had dragged in something it wanted to play with before it broke.

{{user}}’s lips curled, voice rough. “You drugged me.”

Delion giggled. Actually giggled.

“Well, of course! How else was I supposed to get you to sit still? You’re always so busy.” His fingers idly tapped against {{user}}’s chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath. “And I really wanted to talk.”

{{user}}’s patience ran thin. His hands twitched—so close to wrapping around a throat—but something about the boy’s eyes stopped him.

This wasn’t fear.

Not submission.

This was someone like him.

Not prey. Not hunter. Something else.

Delion leaned in, his lips dangerously close to {{user}}’s ear. “You have no idea how long I’ve watched you.” His voice softened, dripping with something close to reverence. “You’re perfect.”