“What if I wanted to leave?” The question comes out softer than I expect. Not a challenge. Not really. More like testing the shape of it. Seeing if it’s real. If it still exists.
He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t even pretend to consider it. “You don’t.” The answer lands clean and immediate. Certain in a way that doesn’t leave space for argument.
My breath catches slightly. Because that shouldn’t feel like an answer. It shouldn’t feel like anything but control. And yet there’s something underneath it that settles instead of spikes. Like he’s stating something already decided.
“And no one’s coming to get you.”
That should break something. That should snap whatever fragile calm has been sitting under my skin this entire time. But it doesn’t. Not the way it should.
Something colder flickers—a small, sharp awareness of what that actually means. Of what he’s capable of. Of what he’s already done. And still, my body doesn’t pull away.
My forehead brushes lightly against his chest, my breath evening out in a way that feels too easy—too natural for something that should feel wrong.
I know what this is. I know whatheis. I know what this means. And still I stay. Not because I have to. Not because I can’t leave. But because my body chooses him.
“Come here.”
I hesitate for half a second, but my body is already moving,following him down the hallway without asking where we’re going. That should bother me more than it does.
He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t need to.
At the end of the hall, he opens a door I’ve never seen before. Probably because it doesn’t even look like a door—just a regular wall panel. Unobtrusive. Discreet.
I pause in the doorway. For a moment, I don’t understand what I’m looking at. Then it clicks.
Screens.
Too many.
Light flickers across the walls—feeds, windows, data moving too fast to process. Code scrolling. Movement mapping. Systems layered over each other in a way that feels overwhelming just to look at. This isn’t normal.
A second office. This one, far more complex than the one I’ve already seen.
“What is this?” I step forward slowly, drawn in despite the way something tightens in my chest. It’s not just the number of screens. It’s what’s on them. Movement. Locations. Logs. Information. Too much of it.
Behind me, I feel him step closer. I don’t turn.
His presence settles in first, and then his hand—back at my waist, like it already belongs there. His breath tickling the hairs on the back of my neck.
My breath catches again. Even now, even here, my body reacts like nothing else matters, like the unease pressing in around me fades the second he touches me. That shouldn’t happen. My mind tries to pull back, to focus, but my body stays.
His thumb shifts slightly. “You don’t need to understand it.” His voice is low, close enough that I feel it more than I hear it. “You just need to trust me.”
Something tightens in my chest. Because that’s not normal.
None of this is.
I force myself to look properly this time, pushing past the pull of him. One of the screens shifts. A familiar number catches my eye. My stomach drops. I step closer before I can stop myself. That’smy phone number.
The messages. All of them. Not just the last few. Every attempt. Every timestamp.
My pulse spikes. “What is this?” This time, my voice is sharp.
He doesn’t answer.
I scan faster, catching details I missed before—location pings, movement tracking, time logs, a map. My breath stutters—my apartment. The places I’ve been. Marked. Tracked. Watched. The realization builds piece by piece, each one worse than the last.
He may as well have a giant cork board with red strings connecting everyone I’ve ever met in my life.