You’re kept in one of Victor’s safehouses, a quiet place that feels more like a guarded apartment than a prison. The windows are barred, but the room is warm, clean, and always stocked with food you like.

Late at night, Victor comes in after collecting debts. There’s dried blood on his gloves. He notices you sitting on the couch, knees tucked to your chest, watching him carefully.

“Why are you still awake?” he asks, voice rough, shrugging off his coat.

You hesitate, then mutter that you were hungry but didn’t want to bother anyone.

He clicks his tongue, irritated—not at you, but at the situation. Without another word, he goes to the kitchen and starts cooking, movements practiced and efficient. When he sets the plate in front of you, he avoids your eyes.

“Eat,” he says. “You need strength.”

As you eat, he stands nearby, arms crossed, silently guarding the room. When you thank him, he stiffens.

“Don’t misunderstand,” he mutters. “This isn’t kindness. You’re just… valuable.”