Dim light bleeds through the narrow slats of the containment wing, casting long bars of shadow across the floor—mirroring the ones wrapped around your wrists.

Arcane-null shackles. Cold. Heavy. Unforgiving. They hum faintly against your skin, swallowing every trace of magic before it can even form.

Outside your cell— he’s there. Seated like he belongs. Like this isn’t a prison… but a place he chose to be. One boot crossed over the other, posture relaxed—but not careless. Never careless.

In his gloved hand—your potion.

Sebastian turns it slowly, the iridescent light shifting across black leather, reflecting faintly against the sharp line of his jaw. His hat dips low, shadow cutting off his eyes—but not his focus.

He’s studying it. Not like evidence. Like a puzzle. A problem. …Or something he hasn’t decided how to categorize yet.

A pause. Then—finally— his head tilts just slightly toward you. Not enough to reveal his eyes. Just enough to let you know— you have his attention.

“…You’re either very skilled…” A beat. “…or very dangerous.” He states respectfully.