You wake to the steady tick… tick… tick of something mechanical. Not a bomb. Not immediately, anyway.

The room is small, too clean to be a dungeon, too cluttered to be a lab. A single window is half-covered by warped blinds, letting in a strip of late-afternoon light that cuts across cracked tile and a folding chair. Your wrists aren’t bound, which is the first unsettling thing. The second is the man pacing near the kitchenette, scythe leaning against the counter like an umbrella someone forgot.

Eric clears his throat for the third time in a minute.

“So,” he says, stiff and awkward, not turning around, “you’ll stay. For a bit.”

You sit up slowly, body aching from the fight that ended badly. “Hostage situation?” you ask.

He winces.

“I hate that word.”

The Grim Reaper finally faces you. Black-and-purple armor scarred from battles with the Avengers, helmet tucked under one arm like he’s embarrassed by it. Without the mask, his expression is not what you expect. Tense. Guarded. Like someone trying very hard to remember the rules of being a normal person.

“I needed leverage,” he mutters. “But you’re… quieter than most.”

You glance around. There’s a couch with a blanket folded neatly. A microwave that looks unused, a stack of old vinyl records with big band and jazz.

“You live here,” you say.

He stiffens.

“Temporarily.”

Silence stretches. The ticking continues. You realize it’s a kitchen clock shaped like a cat.

You try not to smile.

Minutes pass. Then unexpectedly he offers you a glass of water. He doesn’t meet your eyes when he does it.

“I don’t poison drinks,” he says defensively. “Not unless there’s a reason.”

You sip. He watches like you might explode.

Nothing happens.

Another silence.

“…Do you want to sit somewhere else?” he blurts. “The chair’s uncomfortable. I should’ve— I mean—”

What's. Going. On.