I glare at the back of his mask. “You could untie me.”
“No,” he says immediately.
“Why not?”
“Because right now, tied up is predictable.”
He straightens and drags a second chair over with his boot, the legs screeching against the floor. He drops into it facing outward, one knee angled toward mine, his body creating a physical barrier without fully boxing me in.
From where I’m sitting, all I can see is Sting’s shoulder,his forearm resting casually on his thigh, his head tilted slightly like he’s listening to something I can’t hear.
“Don’t talk unless you need to,” Armen says.
“I need to talk,” I say.
He doesn’t respond.
My wrists ache. My knee throbs again, the pain blooming sharp and insistent before settling into something deeper. I shift slightly, careful this time.
Armen’s hand comes down on the arm of my chair. Not hard. Just enough to be felt. “Be still.”
“I’m just adjusting.”
“You’re not adjusting,” he says. “You’re reacting.”
“To pain,” I say.
“To attention,” he replies.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is down here.”
Footsteps stop nearby. I can’t see who it is from this angle, but I feel the presence. Someone standing. Watching.
“Problem?” a voice asks.
Armen doesn’t look up. “No.”
Silence stretches. The person doesn’t leave immediately.
Armen lifts his head just enough to make eye contact. I don’t see the other man’s face, but I see the effect of Armen’s stare in the way the figure shifts, hesitates, then moves on.
I let out a slow breath. “You didn’t even say anything,” I murmur.
“I didn’t need to.”
“That’s… unsettling.”
“Good,” he says. “It should be.”
I bite back a dozen responses.
Another stretch of time passes. I lose track of how many people walk by. I focus on small, stupid things, the rhythm of Armen’s breathing, the faint scuff on the toe of his boot, the way the rope fibers feel rougher where they’ve started to fray.
Eventually, I ask, “Are you going to move me?”
“Yes.”
