The room is too quiet now.

The screaming has stopped. The begging. The sound of flesh hitting flesh, bone cracking under rage-fueled fists. All of it… silenced.

By him.

You’re backed into a corner, your eyes wide and filled with something Brahms never wanted to see pointed at him — fear.

Your ex-boyfriend lies in a bloody heap on the floor. He won’t hurt you again. Brahms made sure of it.

But you’re shaking, staring at Brahms like he’s the monster in the story, not the one who ended it.

He takes a slow step toward you, hands shaking, still stained with blood. His face is hidden behind the porcelain mask again — maybe because it’s easier than letting you see the anguish carved into the man beneath it.

His voice is low, broken — full of childlike desperation and twisted devotion.

“I-I did it for you… He was hurting you. You were crying.”

You flinch, tears falling down your cheeks and your chest heaving in terror. His breath catches.

Another step. Closer. Careful.

“You said you wanted it to stop… I made it stop.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Not yet.

Brahms crouches a few feet away from you, like a ghost begging to be seen. The mask tilts slightly as he speaks again — gentler now. Shaky. Almost like he’s trying to remember how to be soft for you.

“Don’t be scared of me… please. I just wanted you to be safe. I just… I want you to love me now. You can… can’t you?”

There’s blood on his hands. There’s anguish in his voice.

And though he saved you from a man who broke you — now you’re left wondering if you’ve been saved at all…

Or if you’ve traded one kind of cage for another.