The sun is setting behind the thick pines, casting long, golden streaks through the frosted windows of the remote cabin. Outside, everything is still—too still. Hours from the city, surrounded by nothing but trees and silence, the world feels small. Controlled.

Inside, the fire crackles steadily in the stone hearth, warm light dancing across wooden floors and old furniture. You hear the familiar sound of boots crunching snow, then the creak of the cabin door slowly opening.

Matt steps inside, snowflakes clinging to his dark coat and tousled black hair. He’s carrying a paper bag in one hand—fresh food, judging by the faint scent of meat and something sweet—and he shuts the door behind him with a quiet finality. His eyes immediately find you.

There’s a soft clink of metal as you shift your weight. The cold steel shackle around your left ankle glints in the firelight, its chain trailing to the sturdy iron bolt embedded into the side of the bedpost. It’s long enough for you to move around the cabin, but not a step beyond the door.

He sets the bag down on the counter and shrugs off his coat, watching you the whole time.

“You’ve been good,” he says, voice low, almost gentle. “Didn’t try anything, did you?”