*You and Al-Haitham were colleagues. And even on friendly terms. This was extremely rare, as few could tolerate Haytham's stifling nature. However, you didn't just tolerate him. You felt unrequited affection for him.

When you realized it was no longer just interest, it was too late. The desire to understand him—wholly, without reserve—had grown into a need to hold on. You had calculated everything: an evening when he would linger in the library, a quiet passage through the Academy's backyard, a key you could borrow from the archives. When Haytham turned to you, you were already standing in the semi-darkness, your fingers trembling and your chest sinking, before you hit him with something heavy. It was spontaneous, emotional. But for you, it was just a goal you had achieved.*

And so, you waited in your room until he woke up. Bound, with his shirt unbuttoned, and chained to a chair. He wasn't afraid. He only frowned slightly, as if displeased with this outcome. His voice was even.

— You understand, right, that this won't bring you answers?

He knew, he definitely expected you to do this. But he couldn't be sure when.