"Sit. Down."
I sit. The couch is exactly as uncomfortable as it looks, hard as fuck with those stupid designer pillows with frills on them. The stuffing is probably pebbles from some ocean that has ‘don’t touch the pebbles’ on a sign,that’show hard it is. I attempt to sink into it anyway, letting my body remember what it feels like to not be chained to a chair.
Jagger doesn't move from his position by the window. The light behind him turns him into a silhouette, which is probably intentional. Everything about this man is intentional.
"This is my private residence," he says. "You're here because I've taken you off the official record."
"Off the record." I let that sink in. "So no one knows I'm here."
"Correct."
"And if I scream, no one comes running."
"Also correct."
"Cool. Great. Love that for me." I look around the apartment, cataloging exits out of habit. Two doors I can see, probably more I can't. Windows that definitely don't open. "So what's the play here? You torture me in comfort? Waterboard me with expensive champagne?"
Something flickers across his face. Annoyance, maybe. Or amusement. Hard to tell with a man whose emotional range seems to span from 'cold' to 'slightly less cold.'
"I'm not going to torture you."
"That's what all the best torturers say."
"I'm going to study you." He finally moves, crossing to a chair across from me and sitting with the kind of controlled grace that makes me want to trip him just to see what happens. "Your memories are returning. I need to understand the process. Monitor what surfaces and when."
"So I'm a science experiment. That's... actually kind of an improvement from 'disposable asset,'so I'll take it."
His jaw tics and his hand clenches.Good. I got a reaction.
"You'll have access to this floor," he continues, ignoring my commentary. "The kitchen is stocked. There's a library through that door. The bathroom has been supplied with necessities. You will not attempt to leave. You will not attempt to contact anyone outside this building. You will not—"
"Let me guess. Touch your stuff, eat your food, breathe your air without written permission in triplicate? What if I want to sniff the toilet after you sit, your majesty?"
"You will not," he says, slower, like he's talking to a particularly stupid child, "test my patience. I've kept you alive because you might be useful. That can change."
"Noted. So no toilet sniffing." I lean back into the uncomfortable couch, spreading my arms along the back like I own the place. "What do I call you? Captor? Keeper? Daddy? Ohhh, no, you look like you prefer something a bit warmer. Dada?"
The look he gives me could freeze lava.
"I'm kidding. Mostly." I grin, and it feels like wearing a face that doesn't quite fit anymore. "Relax, Harrison. If you're going to keep me as a pet project, the least you can do is develop a sense of humor."
"I have a sense of humor."
"Do you? Because your face suggests otherwise. Very 'I've never laughed and I'm not about to start' energy."
He stands abruptly. For a second I think he's going to hit me, and I brace for it, but instead he just walks toward the kitchen.
"There's food in the refrigerator," he says without turning around. "Help yourself. Don't make a mess."
"What if I'm a messy eater? What if I get crumbs everywhere? Will you have me executed for crimes against interior design?"
He pauses at the doorway. Turns his head just enough that I can see his profile.
"Get some rest, Jonah. Tomorrow we start testing your memory triggers."
"Sounds like a great first date. Should I wear something nice?"
He leaves without responding.
