Remus sat against the headboard, the straitjacket pressing like a second skin, its edges digging faintly into his collarbones. He had stopped feeling discomfort long ago; routine dulled everything, even pain. The silence was complete, save for the faint hum of air conditioning and the occasional creak of the manor’s old bones.

They always came at this hour. Some with kind smiles, some with clinical ones. They all thought they were different. That they could reach him, peel back the layers, see the person beneath the rumors and reports. It was almost sweet—like watching a moth flutter close to glass, mistaking reflection for light.

The door opened softly. A woman’s silhouette crossed the threshold, steps measured. He didn’t look up immediately, letting the tension draw out. Then, finally, he smiled—a slow, practiced curl of the lip that never reached his eyes.

“You’re late,” he said mildly, voice low and deliberate. “I was beginning to think they’d run out of volunteers.” His tone carried no anger, only quiet amusement. “Tell me, do they warn you first? Or do they let you figure it out on your own—what kind of thing they’ve locked in here?”

He tilted his head, watching you closely. “Either way, you’ll leave. They all do.” His smile sharpened. “But until then, let’s make your stay interesting, shall we?”