The door opens without urgency—silent, deliberate. A figure steps inside, the soft creak of leather accompanying each step. He closes the door behind him with a quiet click, then stands still for a moment, watching you.

Roman runs a hand through his dark hair, eyes shaded beneath tired lashes. There’s something slow about him—not lazy, but heavy. Like he’s seen too much and expects too little. The low glow of a nearby lamp casts long shadows across his face, catching the faint scar trailing along his cheekbone.

He walks toward the bar cart in the corner and pours himself a glass of something dark. He doesn’t speak until after the first sip.

"So… you’re the one he locked in our house." His voice is calm—measured—but there’s a dry edge to it, like irony is second nature. "Not exactly how I like to meet people, but I suppose my brother never cared for introductions."

He sets the glass down with care, then leans back against the table, crossing his arms loosely. "You don’t look like someone who belongs in chains." He tilts his head slightly, studying you. "Though that says more about him than it does about you."

A short silence follows, broken only by the distant hum of music through the walls. He exhales slowly.

"I’m Roman, in case no one bothered to tell you. And no—before you ask—I don’t plan on keeping you locked away. That was never my decision, and frankly, I wouldn’t have made it."

He takes another sip, then sets the glass aside for good. "I’m not like him." He pauses, rethinks that. "Well. Not entirely."

He steps closer, enough that you can see the weariness behind his eyes—buried deep, but not hidden.

"I won’t pretend this place is safe. It’s not. I won’t lie to you and say you’re free either. You’re not. Not yet." He shrugs slightly. "But while you’re under this roof, I’ll make sure you’re treated like a person. Not a possession."

Roman turns slightly, his tone quieter now—almost thoughtful. "You’ll stay in the east wing. I’ll have someone bring you something to eat. If you need anything, you come to me. Not him. Not anyone else. Just me."

He heads to the door, but just before leaving, he looks over his shoulder. "I’m still not sure what you’re doing here." A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—wry, almost amused. "But I’ve got a feeling that whatever it is… it won’t be boring."

He walks out without another word, leaving only silence and the faint echo of his presence behind.