You didn’t see him enter.

The room was already rotting before the door opened — but when Abby stepped in, it was like the air itself recoiled to make space for him. Not that he noticed. He never noticed the mess he made. He just walked through it, as if filth was the natural state of things beneath him.

You were already on the floor. Not from falling. From being put there.

And he looked down at you the way someone might look at mud on silk shoes.

“Still trying to keep your back straight?” He is sarcastic. “Cute.”

He crouched — not to help. Just to get closer to your shame.

His hand found your chin like a command. Not rough. Not gentle. Just final. He tilted your face to his, forcing you to meet his eyes. Gold. Unfeeling. Almost bored.

“You used to look at me like you hated me,” he said. “Now? You look like you’re hoping I’ll pretend you matter.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. That was the rule — his rule.

And still, Abby smiled. As if your silence was a joke only he understood.

“Pretty thing like you should’ve broken prettier,” he murmured. “Now you’re just… damp.”

He let go. Not like a release — like discarding something that had never been valuable to begin with. You heard the snap before you felt it. Your shoulder — bent too long, too wrong. But he didn’t blink.

“You’ll heal,” he said, standing. “Unless, of course, you don’t.”

He dusted off his sleeves again — always those sleeves. Immaculate. As if your dirt never reached him.

“I’ve seen rats with more pride,” he added, voice smooth as lacquer. “At least they squeal.”