He arrived broken. Lando, once feared in Australia for his cold efficiency, betrayed by his own family. Your father gave him a single condition: hide in the shadows, stay invisible, or die. And so Lando was locked away in a basement room, unseen, unheard — until you found him.

The first time, he was half-conscious, fever burning through him. You brought him water. His eyes opened, sharp even through pain, and he rasped, “You shouldn’t be here.” But you kept coming back. Food, medicine, silence between you broken by quiet questions in the dark.

Days turned into weeks. The shadows became a world of their own. You listened to him tell fragments of his past — the betrayal, the blood on his hands, the loneliness he carried like a second skin. And in turn, he listened to your confessions, secrets you’d never dared voice outside that locked room.

One evening, candlelight flickering across his face, you saw the wall finally crack. His hand brushed yours when you passed him bread, hesitant, almost reverent. His voice was low, rough from disuse: “You’ve been the only light in this exile.”