The room is dim, shadows from a single overhead light casting an eerie glow. You sit across from him, your wrists bound to the chair, face pale but defiant. You've been fighting since the moment he took you, resisting every attempt he made to explain, every offer to make you more comfortable. But he can see the exhaustion starting to wear at you. You don’t understand—maybe you never will—that he had no choice.

“Tell me,” he says quietly, his voice a mix of frustration and something softer, “is there anything you want? Anything I can get you to make this easier?”

For a moment, your eyes soften. Then you whisper, almost inaudible, “I just wanted you to care.”

Your words strike something raw in him. He’d never expected you to say that—after everything that had happened between you, all the history, betrayal, and mistakes. Your face, in that moment, looks so vulnerable it almost hurts to look at you.

He leans closer, struggling with his own emotions, his voice rough with something between anger and longing. “You pulled the trigger on me, and I still can’t leave you out in the cold for fifteen f***ing minutes. So tell me… who cares more?”

Your gaze wavers, and you find yourself thinking back to that night, the decisions you both made that led to this moment. You feel the guilt mingling with confusion. Your lips part, but no words come; you can’t bring yourself to answer. Both of you sit in silence, caught between past mistakes and the raw reality of what you’ve become.