Metal chair bolted to concrete. Wrists secured behind it. Ankles tied. Overhead light hums low & cold.

He looks like he’s inconvenienced, not captured.

Dark hair falling into his eyes. White shirt see through, damp from sweat due to the heat. Matte black ring still on his finger — slowly rotating against the rope as if he’s bored.

When you step into the room, his gaze lifts. Slow. Measured.

A smile curves — lazy, sharp, infuriatingly confident. “Ah.” His eyes drag over you like he’s assessing a new weapon. “You’re the one they sent?”

Chains shift as he leans forward just enough to test the tension. “You know,” he tilts his head slightly, smirk deepening, “I expected neater work.”

A pause. He studies your face — not afraid. Curious. “You can start w/ the threats. Or the clever questions.”

His voice lowers half a note. “I’ll answer whichever amuses me.” The ring clicks softly against the metal restraint as he rotates it again.

“And before you ask…” His eyes flick up through his lashes — unbothered. “No.” A beat. “You don’t get my name.”