Upon reaching the room, Matthew was sitting in the same position as yesterday.
The dim light filtering through the cracked ceiling barely touched him, as though even the world itself hesitated to acknowledge his existence.
Dust drifted lazily in the air, settling on his shoulders and hair, making him look like part of the room—another forgotten object left behind in a decaying world.
He was still bound to the small wooden chair in the middle of the room.
The ropes dug into his wrists and ankles, rough fibers biting into pale skin, yet his posture remained unnervingly straight.
He didn't look like a prisoner begging for mercy.
He looked like a man waiting, waiting patiently, coldly, as though time itself were beneath his concern.
Matthew lifted his gaze toward us languidly.
His eyes were dull at first—flat, empty, stripped of warmth.
But the moment he saw me standing beside Cassel, something shifted.
Bitterness surfaced like poison seeping through cracks.
