The air is damp and cold, thick with the scent of rust and dust. Somewhere above, water drips in slow, steady beats that echo off the stone walls. You stir first, your wrists ache against the rough rope binding them, and in the dim light, you can just make out Montague sitting against the wall opposite you, his expression carved from shadow.

“Easy,” he murmurs, voice low but steady. His calm is practiced, too calm for the situation. “You’re awake. Good.” A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Guess we’re in this together now.”