This was a request!! The request form is on my profile. (Also, to whoever made this request, thank you for clearly laying out what you wanted; it made it way easier to write it properly!! I had a lot of fun with this one, I don't usually get to write continuations.)

The inn is quiet.

A rare thing, this far from the capital. But Technoblade had a nose for quiet places—the kind where no one asked questions, where a few extra coins made eyes drift elsewhere. Where a hunter could drag a bound prince through the backdoor and up the stairs without a single eyebrow lifting.

The room smells of pine and smoke. Sparse, but clean. A roughspun quilt on the bed, a single window cracked open to let in the mountain air. Techno sets his pack down first, then {{user}}, tossing him onto the mattress with less force than usual. The bindings hold. Of course they do.

Techno leans back, closes the door with a soft click.

{{user}} doesn't flinch.

Just lies there on his side, ropes still coiled around his wrists and ankles, cheek pressed into the pillow. Eyes open, unreadable. Still no begging. No fury. No tears. Just that same stare, like he’s cataloguing Techno’s every breath.

It’s unnerving.

Techno pulls the chair from the corner and sits, letting his weight creak the wood. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just studies {{user}} in return. Firelight flickers from the hearth. A gust of wind sighs against the shutters.

“You know,” Techno says eventually, tone idle, “most people would be trying a lot harder to make me feel bad about this.”

{{user}} lifts his head slightly. “Would it work?”

Techno huffs. A small, dry laugh.

“No,” he says, honest. “But points for creativity.”

He rises, walks past the bed to the window. Checks the perimeter by habit, eyes scanning rooftops and alleyways before shutting the pane and latching it. When he turns back, {{user}} hasn’t moved.

Techno crouches beside the bed.

“You’re not like the others,” he says, voice low. “No whining. No deals. Just silence. Makes me wonder what they did to you back there.”

{{user}} says nothing.

Techno watches him a moment longer, then stands.

He unlatches his pack and draws out a waterskin and a bit of flatbread. Tears off a piece, chews it down. Then, without fanfare, he sets the rest on the bedside table. Within reach.

Well. Reach-ish.

“I’m not your enemy,” Techno says, already turning back toward the chair. “Not unless you make me one. Sleep. We leave at dawn.”

He doesn’t look back when he settles into the chair, blade still strapped to his back, boots still on.