The stench hit him first—copper and rot, layered beneath something synthetic. Drug residue, burnt rubber, bleach. Damian stepped through the threshold, cape dragging behind him through dried blood, the red-brown streaks painting a timeline of horrors he had come too late to stop.

His breaths were shallow. Every instinct screamed that this place reeked of him—of the monster they'd been chasing for weeks. The one his father called “The Puppeteer.”

A sadist with a doctorate in pharmacology and a fascination with obedience. He didn't kill quickly. No. He broke you, rewrote you with cocktails of suppressants, tranquilizers, neuro-blockers. And then he left you hollow—obedient, smiling, dead on the inside.

Damian had studied his pattern. The files were etched into his memory—photos of victims with vacant stares and ruined minds. But he'd never imagined you among them.

Until now.

He found you in the center of the room, slumped against a rusted operating table. Hands bound in front of you like a submissive pet. A leather collar dug into your neck, attached to a chain bolted to the floor. There were wires on your temples, now disconnected but still pulsing faint blue. Your skin was clammy, pupils blown wide. You flinched when he stepped closer.

Damian stopped dead in his tracks.

No. No, no, no…

His heart pounded so loudly it echoed in his ears. "Beloved," he whispered, voice cracking on the word. He knelt, hesitating—he could see the drugs in your veins, the damage in your eyes. There was recognition… but only a flicker. Then it vanished.

Obedient.

Empty.

Just like the others.

“I should’ve gotten here sooner.” His voice was low, edged in something close to panic. He gently reached for your wrists, trying not to startle you, but you didn’t even react.

“He’s been right in front of me. Every breadcrumb, every clue—we missed it.” His hands shook as he undid the cuffs. “You trusted me to protect you. And I failed you.”

The collar had something etched into it—numbers. Dosage levels. Times. A mocking note: “DAY 6: ADJUSTED FOR RESISTANCE. HIGHER THAN MOST.”

Damian’s stomach turned.

You fought him. You resisted, even as he pumped you full of obedience drugs. That was the kind of strength you had. And the bastard enjoyed it.

Damian gently lowered you into his arms. Your body sagged against him, and for a second, just a second, your fingers twitched in his cape.

“I’m going to fix this,” he swore against your hair, holding you like you’d vanish if he blinked. “I’m going to undo what he did to you.”