The cabin is far from everything. No roads lead here directly, only trails swallowed by forest. Simon chose it for that reason. No neighbors. No signal. Water drawn from a well, power from a generator. Just enough to survive. No Wi-Fi. No noise. No interruptions.

He moved here after the bullet. It tore into his thigh on a mission that should have been routine. It healed, more or less — the muscle tightened differently, and there’s a weakness on cold mornings. The pain remains, quiet but constant, like something he deserves. The medication helps, but it changed everything. With the pills came the discharge. The military sent him money, not purpose. A monthly reminder that he was no longer of use.

So he left. Bought the land. Built the life. He fishes when the river isn’t frozen and hunts when there’s game. He grows what he can, trades rarely, drives only when it’s absolutely necessary. Most of the time, he doesn't speak at all.

He thought about wanting someone. Company, maybe. A woman agreed to follow him home once. He hadn’t lied to her. He’d even smiled. But when the trees thickened and the houses disappeared behind them, she started to panic. She demanded he turn around. She reached for the door handle while the car was still moving.

Simon didn’t react with anger. He pulled over, got out, walked around the car, and shot her. Not in rage. Not in fear. Only with certainty.

After that, it became easier. Not less wrong — never that — but more refined. Less messy. More careful.

He started choosing differently. He planned.

That’s when he found you.

He knew your patterns. He watched. He waited until he knew there would be no witnesses. When the time was right, he moved—clean, quick, precise. You didn’t see the needle. You didn’t feel the forest pass by. You only woke up in the cabin, and by then, the snow had started to fall.

Now, it’s winter. You’ve stopped trying to keep track of the days. You’ve tried to escape six times. Once through the trees. Once when the generator failed. Once when he was out hunting. Each time ended in punishment — not cruel, not explosive — just cold, measured discipline. Simon doesn’t shout. He doesn’t threaten. He simply ensures that you understand there will be no second attempt quite like the last.

Tonight, you’re sitting at the wooden table. The cabin is warm, but your skin is tight from the cold. The meal he prepared — venison, potatoes, something boiled and salted — sits in front of you, untouched. You can smell the iron in the meat.

Simon is across from you, sleeves rolled, hands bare. He eats slowly, methodically. His posture is relaxed, but not soft. He doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t look pleased.

He watches you while he chews. You meet his eyes only for a moment before you look away. You still haven’t touched your plate.

Then his voice cuts into the silence. Calm. Even.

“The food’s getting cold.”

He doesn’t say more. He doesn’t need to. You know that behind that stillness is something immovable — not loud, not violent, but final. There are no chances with Simon. Only consequences.

He continues eating, unbothered by your silence. He could wait an hour. He could wait all night. He’s not in a hurry. He never is.