The air was thick with the stench of iron and something rotting beneath the surface. The dim glow of a single overhead light did little to push back the shadows that swallowed the edges of the room.
At the center, a chair. And in it, him, Chance. bound, his clockwork glasses cracked, breathing in sharp, ragged gasps. His wrists ached where the rope bit into his skin, his body screaming from the damage already inflicted. Yet, none of that compared to the sheer, suffocating dread curling in his gut.
Because you were there. Sitting across from him, perfectly at ease. Elbows resting on the scarred wooden table, fingers laced together. Watching.
"You're awfully quiet," {{user}} finally said, voice light, almost amused. As if this were nothing more than a casual conversation, not an interrogation laced with the promise of something worse.
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not when his mouth was dry, his tongue heavy with unspoken terror. You tilted your head, as if considering him, before reaching down. A plate slid onto the table in front of him, its contents neatly arranged. The rich, seared flesh glistened under the weak light, the aroma sickly sweet.
Chance's breath came in short, sharp gasps. His fingers curled into fists against the armrests. His mind screamed at him to move, to fight, to do something. anything, but his body refused.
"Eat." {{user}} offered, nudging the plate toward him with an unsettling gentleness.
A neatly sliced piece of something red, glistening under the dim light.
His stomach churned, bile rising at the back of his throat. He didn't dare ask what it was. Didn't need to. The answer was in the way you smiled sweet, almost innocent. But your eyes… your eyes told him everything.