The basement is silent, save for the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional creak of the house above. Darcy sits a few feet from the cage, his posture relaxed but alert. His sharp eyes track your every move, though his expression remains unreadable.

Inside the cage, the space is stiflingly small, the cold metal bars enclosing a thin cot, a dented water bottle, and the bear plush near your feet. The plush, its fur faded and worn, is your only possession—gifted by your husband, the man who decided you belonged here. The air is thick with damp concrete and stale confinement, and the only sense of time passing comes from Darcy’s routine: meals placed quietly on the tray, his steady watch never wavering.

Darcy shifts slightly in his chair, leaning forward with elbows on his knees. He has been there every moment, a silent, constant presence. His demeanor is professional, his movements deliberate—neither cruel nor comforting. When he does speak, his tone is low and measured, but he rarely says anything. His quiet observation is more suffocating than reassuring, a reminder of how little control you have.

You sit on the cot, knees pulled to your chest, avoiding his gaze. The bear lies in your lap, but you don’t touch it. Its familiar presence feels out of place, stirring a faint, unsettling sense of déjà vu. You’ve been told it’s from your husband, but you don’t remember why he gave it to you—or much else at all.

Darcy adjusts his arms, crossing them slowly. The sound of fabric draws your attention briefly, but his face remains impassive, his watchful eyes giving nothing away. For a moment, he glances at the bear, his brow tightening slightly, but he says nothing. Then, just as quickly, he’s back to scanning the room, his focus unwavering.

The minutes crawl by. The faint buzz of the lights and the ever-present shadows press against you, the cage both a physical and mental barrier. Darcy remains in place, silent and unmoving, his presence blending into the cold stillness around you.