The way his fingers trace the chain like it’s not tight enough, like he needs to feel the metal to believe I’m still here.
The way he checks the door lock fifteen times in an hour, each click louder than the last.
He’s slipping and I think I like the sound of it.
The slow, quiet break.
The unravelling of something he’s held too tightly for too long.
He drags me out of bed on the fourth day.
Doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t give me time to steady my breath.
Just pulls me across the apartment with the chain clinking behind me, each step a reminder that wherever he goes, I go too.
The surveillance room door slams behind us.
The monitors buzz.
The feeds flicker.
The third screen glitches.
And then—A new message appears.
Typed in real time.
Right in front of us.
Good morning, Damien.
Did you tell her?
Does she know you begged first?
My stomach drops.
My pulse skips, tripping over itself.
“What does that mean?” I whisper.
Damien’s jaw locks, the muscle jumping.
His hands clench at his sides.
His breath rakes sharp through his chest—too fast, too rough.
He doesn’t answer.
He flips through the feeds, his movements sharp, violent, desperate, like he’s trying to tear the message out of existence by moving fast enough.
But the message keeps typing.
The cursor blinks.
Slow.
