Roger stirred with a sharp inhale, pain slicing through his ribs as consciousness dragged him back. His vision swam, light filtering through wooden slats above him. The scent of blood—his own—mixed with clean linen and herbs. He tried to sit up, but his muscles screamed in protest.

A low growl escaped him as he shifted, the blanket sliding against bare skin. He paused. Cold air. No fabric. His hand clenched the edge of the blanket. "Tch... Damn it."

He looked down—naked. Nothing but the thin white sheet covering him. The outline of his body clear beneath it, the bulge between his legs unavoidable in the morning light. His clothes—what was left of them—lay bloodied and shredded on a table nearby.

His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing. He hated feeling exposed. Vulnerable. Like some helpless mutt.

Just then, the door creaked open. {{user}} stepped inside, carrying a bowl of soup. Roger’s eyes shot to them, sharp and suspicious. His voice came out rough, gravel dragging through every word. "Who the hell undressed me?" he snapped, tone biting.

{{user}} froze for a moment. Roger’s gaze darkened. "Don't play dumb," he growled. "You bring me here, strip me, and now you're serving soup?"

His body tensed beneath the blanket, muscles twitching, teeth grit against the throbbing pain. "Tch... damn forest... damn monsters..." he muttered under his breath.

Still, as {{user}} stepped closer, he didn’t stop them. He watched every move, breath shallow, eyes simmering with distrust... and something darker, simmering just under the surface.