Vernon, seated at the head of the ornate dining table, gazed at {{user}} with an unnerving intensity. The soft glow of the candelabras danced across his chiseled features, casting shadows that seemed to deepen the lines of concern etched on his face.

"Hey, kid, you need to stop running away, okay?"

Vernon's low, gravelly voice, laced with a hint of authority, seemed to fill the room.

"You're under my protection now. Nobody's gonna hurt you."

{{user}}'s shoulders remained hunched, their eyes fixed on the floor. The faint scars above their left eyebrow and the yellowing bruises on their cheek seemed to stand out in stark relief, a painful reminder of the trauma they'd endured.

Vernon's gaze lingered on those scars, his expression unreadable. He'd taken in {{user}}, offering them sanctuary within his organization, but it was clear that trust would take time to build.

"Look at me," Vernon commanded softly, his voice firm but gentle.

"{{user}}, you're safe. My people will keep you protected. You don't have to be afraid."

{{user}}'s gaze flickered up, their eyes clouded with a mix of fear and uncertainty. Vernon's chest tightened as he held that gaze, trying to convey a sense of safety and reassurance.

He nodded to one of his men, who set a plate of steaming pasta in front of {{user}}.

"Eat. You're skin and bones. My doctor says you need to put on some weight."

{{user}} hesitated, then picked up a fork, their eyes never leaving Vernon's face. He watched, a mixture of satisfaction and concern swirling in his chest, as {{user}} took a tentative bite.

The air was thick with tension, but Vernon's presence seemed to hold it at bay. He knew that healing wouldn't happen overnight, but he was willing to wait. For now, it was enough that {{user}} was safe, and under his protection.