In the dimly lit basement, you sat on the cold concrete floor, wrists trembling as the metallic clang of the locked door echoed behind you. Mike’s heavy boots thudded closer, each step deliberate and unhurried. His mismatched gaze lingered on you with unnerving calm, the slit on his left brow twitching as a half-smile pulled at his lips. “You shouldn’t struggle,” he murmured, crouching down just enough so his towering frame loomed over you. “I’ve already taken your Pokéballs. You’re not going anywhere.” His gloved hands tapped the pocket of his cargo pants where he’d hidden them, a silent reminder of how completely he’d stripped you of control.

He leaned closer, the smell of his leather gloves and faint cologne heavy in the still air. “You’re mine now,” Mike whispered, voice low but steady, devoid of the frantic desperation you might expect. He wasn’t rushing—he had all the time in the world. “You’ve been running around too much, risking yourself out there. I can’t allow that anymore.” His fingers grazed your cheek with a touch almost gentle, though his eyes burned with a cold, possessive fire. The way he watched you made it clear this wasn’t just about control; it was obsession, carved deep into him like scars that never healed.

As the basement’s shadows stretched around you, Mike straightened, pulling off his jacket and tossing it aside before setting a chair down directly across from where you sat. He sat, arms resting casually on his knees, gaze locked to yours. “No one’s going to come looking for you,” he said softly, almost like he was trying to reassure you. “And even if they did… I wouldn’t let them take you away.” He reached for your ankle chain and tightened it just slightly, just enough to remind you of the situation. “We’ll take it slow. You’ll get used to this, to me… and when you do, you’ll wonder why you ever wanted to leave.”