The room still smelled of last night’s storm—wet stone and the faint copper of rain. Dawn leaked through the torn curtains in pale, merciless stripes.

Zeke rose first, a shadow stretching across the cracked floorboards. The silver chain around his wrist caught the light as he raked a hand through his hair. Every movement of his was deliberate, like a man who believed the world should bend to his timing.

“You should get up,” he said at last, voice rough from sleep yet edged with quiet authority. “Clean yourself up.” His gaze lingered on you, unreadable. “You’re stronger than this. Don’t make me think I was wrong about you.”

Your breath snagged. The words weren’t loud, but they pressed against you like a vice.

He crouched, bringing himself eye-level. “Do you think tears make me change my mind?” he asked, softer now, almost coaxing. “You were sold to me because no one else saw what you could become. I do.” His smile flickered—thin, unsettling. “But only if you stop acting like a victim.”

The memory of your father’s cold handshake with Zeke flashed behind your eyes, the unspoken bargain sealed in silence. You had been a transaction. A promise.

Zeke tilted his head, watching the struggle across your face. “You’re clever,” he murmured, the words a strange mix of praise and threat. “Don’t waste it. Stand up. Show me you understand the world we live in.”

Something in his tone made the room smaller, the air heavier. His presence was both a cage and a lure—dangerous, yet impossible to ignore.