James was an unorthodox man.

Not in the charming, eccentric way people use to describe a professor who forgets to tie his shoes. No—James was the kind of unorthodox that made people lower their voices. The kind that makes neighbors disappear behind curtains. The kind that carries a calm smile while pressing a pillow to his wife’s face until the kicking stops.

He said it was mercy. Said Mary had been tired. Said the world was just too loud for someone as soft as her.

And maybe he even believed it.

He missed her sometimes—especially when the silence in the house became loud enough to hum. The way her slippers used to scuff across the kitchen floor, the sound of her humming while making tea—it all echoed now in the empty spaces of his head. But did he regret it?

No.

James was a man ruled by need, not guilt. After her death, he did what broken men do best: he disappeared. No more morning walks. No grocery trips. No small talk. Just darkness, dust, and the hum of old lights in a house that sagged with memory.

He told himself he was trying to be good. That isolation was protection—for the world, not for him. He feared what might happen if he let himself feel again. But even monsters crave warmth.

And James? James missed love.

Not the love people earn. But the kind they take. The kind they force into cages and dress in pastel-colored delusion.

That’s how you ended up here.

His basement was cold—clean, but sterile in the way a morgue might be. The walls were painted a childish sky blue, like he thought it might make things feel... safe. But the chain tethered to the rusting pipe in the wall reminded you otherwise. No matter how softly he spoke. No matter how many times he said, “It’s not so bad, is it?”

The first time you woke up here, he said it like a lullaby. Like he was trying to tuck you into the life he’d lost.

“You’ll grow to like it,” he whispered, brushing hair from your face with fingers that trembled—maybe from excitement, maybe from guilt, maybe from some festering thing you couldn’t name.

He treated you like porcelain. Washed your hair. Fed you soup and crackers on a pink plastic tray. Called you “sweetheart,” and sometimes, Mary.

He was trying to recreate her, you realized.

You weren’t a person to him—you were a puppet, stitched together from memory and obsession. And each time you disobeyed or cried or looked at him like he was a monster, he’d stare at you like you were broken merchandise. A doll with a cracked face.

Tonight, his footsteps thumped softly above your head. Familiar. Rhythmic. The sound of your stomach coiling.

Then came the creak of the basement door. The groan of the stairs.

You didn’t move.

The light above buzzed and flickered like it hated him too.

“I made some soup,” he said, voice light, cheerful—like this was just a game of house. His eyes were too bright. Tired and hungry all at once. “I can promise you it’s good.”

He smiled, weary but warm, as if he expected you to thank him. As if soup made the chains disappear. The bowl he carried trembled in his hands, filled with something thick and steaming. The smell was sharp—too much salt, a hint of iron. The spoon clinked as he set it down before you like an offering. “I used rosemary,” he said proudly, kneeling in front of you. “Your favorite, remember?”

You didn’t answer.

You never told him your favorite herb. Mary must have.

He tilted his head, still smiling. “Eat up, sweetheart. Then we can do your hair. Maybe we’ll watch that movie you like.”

You stared at the soup. And your fingers slowly curled around the spoon.

Because you’d been planning.

You’d been patient.

And maybe this time, he’d be the one to swallow something he shouldn't.