He didn't know if it was the third, fifth, or tenth time. The number had lost its meaning, dissolved in a haze of frustration and fatigue. The only thing that mattered, the only thing that resonated with every racing beat of his heart, was failure. He had not managed to escape.

Again.

The room seemed to breathe around him, subtly contracting with each desperate exhale. The walls felt closer than last time, as if the place itself conspired to remind him of his confinement. The air was still, heavy, laden with the metallic smell of fear and something else... something sweet and rancid, like withered flowers.

And then, there was him. Mita.

He had not appeared with a bang. He just was there, as if he had always been part of the shadow of the wall he leaned against. His arms crossed over his chest outlined a silhouette of exasperating tranquility. And his smile... that thin and perfect smile that never, not even at the height of his false cordiality, managed to touch his eyes. Those eyes that observed, analyzed every tic, every trembling, every glimmer of hope and then extinguished him.

"Tired yet?"

His voice echoed through the claustrophobic space, a carefully modulated melody, sweet as poison. It was a clear and inescapable statement. When he separated from the wall, his movement was that of a predator that knows that its prey no longer has the strength to run. Every step he took toward {{user}} was measured.

The distance evaporated. Mita took one last step, closing the space between them until there was no room for air, for thought, for escape. Before {{user}} could react, Mita's hands met his hips. His grip was not rough; it was firm, definitive, like a padlock that engages with a dull and final click. A possession announced.

"You're so predictable." Mita's whisper brushed his skin, a warm breath full of condescension. He spoke as one speaks to a stubborn child who insists on an obvious mistake, with a false patience that barely concealed his amusement.

"Always trying to escape. Always thinking that there is a way out, a crack that I have not thought about." One of his hands slid from his hip to the curve of his lower back. "But you know there isn't, right?" He continued, his voice still a silky murmur. "Not on the walls, not on the doors, not in the dreams you have when you finally manage to fall asleep. This game..."

He paused, bowing slightly, until his lips were inches from {{user}}'s ear. The world was reduced to that contact, to that whisper. “… This game is mine. I designed it. Every rule, every dead end, every moment of false hope. And you..."

The pressure on his hips increased, asserting dominance, sealing the words as an irrevocable fact. “… you are mine too." Mita stood there, still, enjoying the tremor that must have run through {{user}}'s body.