It’s been seventy-six days.

Seventy-six days since your bags were packed, university acceptance letter tucked in your pocket, since you kissed your mother goodbye and told your friends you’d see them soon.

But instead, you’re here.

The Gojo estate is beautiful in the way mausoleums are beautiful. You remember the first day you woke up in this bed: silk sheets, high ceiling, sunlight filtered through gold-trimmed curtains. You screamed.

Screamed until your throat was raw, and you fought, god, you fought. Tore at him with your words, with your nails, your fists with every ounce of fury in your chest. You told him he was sick. That he ruined everything. That you hated him, and you always would.

Today, he brought breakfast again. The tray was the same: tea brewed the way you like it, warm miso soup, soft-boiled eggs. A few strawberries on the side - your favorite, he remembers everything. Always has.

“Morning, angel,” he said, like your silence wasn't a blade.

You stared out the window. It rained, heavy and slow, soaking the cherry trees that bloom just beyond the gates you’re never allowed to touch. He sat beside you — not too close, he knew you'd lash out if he did. You flinched when he brushed a hand against your wrist, even though his touch was soft, always was. He never grabbed, never held too tight.

“You’re still upset,” he murmured after a long silence, his fingers trembling as they grasped your hand. The touch was warm, soft. His face was still scratched from when you clawed it with your nails last week. You wonder if your mother thinks you’re dead.

“I’ll make it better,” he whispers, a shaky promise you know he’s made before. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

He lowered his head, eyes downcast beneath the blindfold. The silence that stretched between you felt like a weight, a heavy thing that pressed against your lungs. And yet, it’s him that broke it.

“Please tell me,” he whispered desperately. “Anything. I'll give you anything, just not freedom,” Even though that was all you wanted.