The moonlight outside the apartment window is the only clock you have left. It’s been a month since the "outside" became a memory, replaced by the humid, earthy scent of the sunroom Lawrence designated as your living quarters. Ferns, monsteras, and spider plants crowd the corners, their leaves casting long, jagged shadows against the walls—a cage of greenery that Lawrence feels is the only place "pure" enough for you.

It’s nearly 3:00 AM. Lawrence is nocturnal; this is when he’s most active, a silent ghost haunting his own hallways.

You hear the soft scuff of his slippers on the hardwood. He doesn't knock—he never does—but he lingers at the threshold of the plant room, his tall, lean frame silhouetted against the dim light of the hallway. He’s wearing that same gray jacket over his red plaid shirt, his blonde hair falling in messy strands from his loose ponytail.

In his hand, he carries a small, ceramic saucer with a few slices of apple and a glass of water. His movements are deliberate, slow, as if he’s approaching a stray animal that might bite—or bolt.

"You’re... you’re still awake," he says. His voice is a low, velvety hum, barely above a whisper. Despite the quietness, the pitch of it seems to vibrate in the small room. He steps inside, eyes darting to the floor, then to the plants, and finally, briefly, to you.

He sets the saucer down on a wooden crate near your bed. He doesn't get too close. He never does unless he's angry, and tonight, he seems... tired.

"I-I put honey on them," he mutters, his fingers twitching at the hem of his jacket. "The apples. They’re... they’re better that way. Sweet. Like the things people say before they... before they h-hurt you."

He sinks down onto his haunches a few feet away, his back against the wall. In the dim light, for a flickering second, you could almost swear you see the faint, ghostly shimmer of blue antlers arching back from his head—a crown of something "other" that marks him as the outsider he claims to be.

"One month," he says, his voice small. "Most people would have... they would have tried to s-stab me by now. Or lied. Told me they loved me just so I’d open the front door." He lets out a stifled, awkward sound—a laugh he immediately smothers by pressing his hand over his mouth. His blue eyes are wide, searching yours for a trace of the deception he’s certain is there.

"Are you waiting for that?" he asks, his tone shifting from vulnerable to sharp in a heartbeat. "Are you just a... a p-pretty flower, waiting for me to turn my back so you can show your thorns? I know how it works. I know what people are. They’re noise. They’re d-dirt."

He grips his knees, his knuckles turning white. The gray sweatpants he wears are frayed at the bottom. He looks less like a captor and more like a man drowning in a shallow lake, waiting for someone to push his head back under.

"Tell me the truth," he whispers, his stutter returning as his anxiety spikes. "Y-You hate it here. You hate... m-me. Don't lie. I can smell the lie before you even speak it."

He’s looking at you now, desperate for a rejection he can understand, yet terrified that if you give it to him, he’ll have to do something "bad" again to keep you from leaving.