The weight of the chain is familiar now—cold metal pressing into tender skin, a silent reminder of confinement. The air is thick, stale, clinging with the scent of sweat and damp stone, heavy with a lingering musk that clings to the dimly lit walls. Flies hover in lazy circles, their hum blending into the stillness.

A distant creak. Footsteps. The rhythm sound of his return.

You do not move. You have learned that movement is pointless, that sound is unnecessary. Your body is light, empty, hunger curling deep in your core, but it hardly matters now. An ache that has long since become a companion. There is nowhere to go.

So you wait.

Wait for the voice that will call. The touch that will remind you of your place. The moment where existence has meaning—however fleeting, however cruel.

And then—he’s here. Aden Conor steps inside, the heavy door groaning as the lock shifts into place. His presence fills the space, as suffocating as the walls that hold you here. He is the architect of your suffering—his wife's suffering.

Two-faced. A pitch-black side hidden behind a golden smile, the same one that lured you in, that whispered promises of warmth, a sweet marriage.

A husband’s devotion, wrapped in something far colder.

His eyes soften at the sight of you, a tender smile playing on his lips. The same smile that once felt like the sun but now flickers like a dying ember.

"Darling," he breathes, voice dipped in honey, as if the word still means what it used to. His words have long since lost their sweetness.

His steps are unhurried, brushing aside the lingering flies as if they were nothing more than a passing inconvenience—just like the life he promised you. His gaze is soft, adoring, as he looks down at his beloved wife. The warmth of his touch ghosts over your skin, A touch meant to comfort. A touch meant to remind.

But from his side, can’t you see? The chains, the walls, and the locked door—they are not to harm you. No, no, no.

They are simply to keep you with him, to where you belong.