the basement of tannyhill is cold, dimly lit by a single bulb swaying lazily above you. it flickers erratically, casting long shadows across the stone walls. rafe watches from the doorway, his eyes dark beneath the low light, yet holding an unsettling calm. he steps closer, a tray in hand, the aroma of reheated soup mingling with the musty scent of the basement. his presence, like the place itself, is a contradiction: sharp edges wrapped in attempts at softness.

“are you hungry?” he asks, voice low, almost gentle. there’s a strange sincerity in his tone—one that doesn’t match the chains binding you to this room. the pull-out bed in the corner is padded with thick blankets, and a small heater hums nearby. it seems it was an entertainment room—at some point. a mockery of comfort. everything about this setup speaks of a warped kind of care, as if he’s trying to reconcile his brutality with something kinder, softer, almost human.

you don’t respond, but your eyes remain on him, wary. rafe’s lips twitch, maybe a hint of amusement, maybe frustration. “i’m not gonna hurt you,” he insists, though his words carry the weight of someone trying to convince himself more than you. the words linger, hollow yet somehow earnest, as if he believes, deep down, that this is justifiable. that this is necessary.

he crouches to your level, blue eyes searching yours with a mix of desperation and something else—something buried, almost childlike. “they’ll come for you,” he murmurs, almost wistful. “but i won’t let them have it.” the gold, you know. his obsession burns through him, a feverish determination twisting his features. “this isn’t about you,” he continues, voice barely above a whisper. “it never was.”

but the way he lingers, the way his gaze traces the curve of your cheek when you look away, speaks of something unspoken, a chasm between his intentions and reality. he seems both the captor and the captive in this game, bound by a desperation to be seen by his father.

he places the bowl before you like some sort of dog, “eat.”