"Don't Run From Me."
The doorknob turns.
I don't think.
I move.
I jerk backward so fast the chair nearly tips, the rope biting into my wrists. My breath stabs out of me in a sharp panic.
"Kai—" I whisper. "Let me go. Untie me. Now."
"No."
"Someone is out there!"
"I know."
"Then untie me!"
His grip slides from my shoulder to my arm, steady, anchoring. "Stop."
"I'm not staying here—"
"Aurora," he warns.
The door creaks softly, not opening—just shifting. Just enough to make the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
My voice shakes. "Kai, please—I can't stay tied up. Not if someone is coming in here."
"No one's coming in."
"You don't know that!"
"I do."
"How?!"
He doesn't answer.
The darkness swallows everything—walls, floor, him—but his hand stays on my arm, warm, solid, unmovable.
I yank against the rope again. "I swear to God, if you don't untie me—"
"You'll do what?" he murmurs.
"I'll fight you."
"You already did."
"And I'll do it again."
"I know."
His calmness makes it worse. I twist harder, trying to slip my wrists. The rope burns. My breath comes too fast.
"Kai—let me go."
"No."
"I mean it."
"So do I."
"I'm not playing."
"You never are."
The doorknob jiggles again—quiet but sharp.
I flinch. "Kai—did you lock it?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Then why—"
"Don't panic."
"I'm not panicking."
"You are."
"Of course I'm panicking! Something's at the door and you won't untie me—"
He moves closer. I feel him kneeling in front of me, his hands bracing the sides of the chair.
"Aurora."
"What?"
"Look at me."
"I can't see you!"
"Then listen."
His forehead presses lightly against mine—steady, grounding, too intimate for the situation. I freeze, breath caught.
"You try to run," he whispers, "every time you're scared."
"Because I don't want to die."
"You're not dying."
"Someone is at the door!"
"I know."
"Then why won't you untie me?!"
"Because the second you're free," he says softly, "you'll go for the door."
"Maybe."
"Exactly."
"You can't keep me tied up forever."
"Just right now."
"Kai—"
"Aurora."
I shake my head, twisting my wrists again. "This is insane. I'm not staying like this—I'm not—"
His hand covers mine—warm, firm, not painful, but unbreakable.
"Stop fighting."
"I can't."
"You can."
"You don't understand—"
"I do."
"No, you don't!"
He exhales through his nose, slow and quiet. "What are you trying to do? Get killed?"
"No! I'm trying to leave!"
"Same thing."
The words hit me harder than the darkness.
I stop breathing for a second.
"What… what does that mean?"
He doesn't answer.
Not with words.
His fingers slide to the knot at my wrists—not loosening it, not tightening it, just holding it like he's reminding me how trapped I am… and how much worse it could be.
"Aurora," he whispers, "don't try to run."
"You can't tell me that."
"I just did."
I swallow, my voice barely a breath. "You're not even scared."
"I'm not the one they want."
My stomach drops. "They?"
He doesn't explain.
He stands slowly, rising in front of me. A shadow in a pitch-black room. His hand touches my shoulder again, gentle, guiding.
"I'm moving you."
"What? Why?"
"Because you're shaking."
"No, I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm fine."
"You're freezing."
"Kai—"
He doesn't wait.
He slides one arm behind my back and the other beneath my knees—lifting me, chair and all, as if I weigh nothing. I gasp and grab his shirt instinctively.
"What are you doing?!"
"Putting you somewhere safer."
"Safer than behind a locked door?!"
"Yes."
"Where?!"
"You'll see."
"I don't want to see—I want out!"
"That's not happening."
"Put me down!"
"No."
"Kai—put me down!"
"No."
His voice stays calm, even as I twist against him.
"You're hurting yourself," he says.
"I don't care!"
"Then I care for you."
I freeze.
"What?"
He keeps walking through the dark, his footsteps steady.
"You heard me," he says quietly.
I can't breathe.
"That doesn't make sense," I whisper.
"Not everything has to."
I swallow hard. "You're trying to confuse me."
"No."
"Then what are you doing?"
He pauses.
Then—
"Stopping you from getting hurt."
A loud bang hits the door.
I jump violently.
"Kai!"
"I know."
"What was that?!"
"A warning."
"From who?!"
"You don't want that answer."
"Yes, I do!"
"No," he says, voice low, final. "You really don't."
I grip his shirt tighter, shaking.
"Kai… please… just tell me what's going on."
He shifts his hold on me slightly, keeping me close.
"Later."
"No—now—"
"Later," he repeats, firm.
The door bangs again.
I gasp, burying my face against his chest without thinking.
His hand slides to the back of my head—not pushing, not forcing, just holding me there.
"Don't run from me, Aurora."
"I—I wasn't—"
"You were."
"I'm scared."
"I know."
"Then untie me."
"No."
"Why?!"
His voice drops to a whisper, right against my ear.
"Because if you run in the dark… I won't be able to catch you."
His arms tighten around me.
"And I'm not losing you to whatever's at that door."
The room felt different when I woke up again.
Not safer.
Not brighter.
Just… different.
Quiet in a way that made my skin prickle, as if the walls were holding their breath, waiting for something I wasn't ready for.
I pushed myself up slowly, the thin sheet slipping from my shoulders. My muscles ached, not from anything he'd done—he hadn't touched me since the bathroom—but from the way my body had been locked in tension for too many hours.
The light was softer now.
Late afternoon, maybe.
Or early evening.
Time didn't move normally in this place. It crawled around the edges of my mind, twisting itself into knots I couldn't untangle.
My gaze drifted to the door.
It was open.
Not wide, not enough to be an invitation… but not closed either.
Like he wanted me to wonder.
Like he wanted me to test it.
My heart thumped once, hard and painful. Every instinct screamed at me to run—to take the sliver of a chance and bolt even if I didn't know where the hell to go.
But a memory cut through the thought like a blade:
His voice, low and terrifyingly calm, from earlier.
"If you run, I'll find you. And you won't like what happens after that."
I swallowed against the dryness in my throat.
Testing him wasn't bravery.
It was suicide dressed up as hope.
Still… the open door gnawed at me.
Maybe it was a mistake.
Maybe he forgot to lock it.
But I doubted that.
He didn't look like the kind of man who forgot things.
He looked like the kind who noticed everything—even the way I breathed.
I shifted my legs off the bed, the floor cold beneath my bare feet. A shiver ran up my spine, but I wasn't sure if it was from the temperature or the fear that wrapped around me like invisible hands.
I walked slowly toward the door.
Not with courage.
Just with curiosity sharpened by desperation.
Each step felt like it echoed too loudly, even though the sound barely existed. My fingertips brushed the doorframe.
And then—
A shadow moved in the hallway.
My breath stuck in my lungs.
Not fast.
Not threatening.
Just present.
Watching.
He stepped forward, and my heart stuttered painfully.
He didn't say anything.
He didn't need to.
His eyes locked on mine—dark, steady, assessing.
And then they dropped intentionally to my hand on the doorframe.
As if he wanted me to see exactly what he was seeing:
Me. Testing boundaries.
Me. Wanting something I didn't dare claim out loud.
Heat rushed to my cheeks in humiliation or fear—maybe both. I withdrew my hand immediately, but it didn't change anything. He'd already seen what he needed to see.
He leaned against the wall, arms folded, like he'd been standing there for a long time.
Like he'd been waiting to see what I would do when I realized the door wasn't locked.
"How long?" I whispered.
His brow lifted a fraction. "How long what?"
"How long were you standing there?"
"Long enough."
The way he said it wasn't cruel.
It wasn't smug either.
It was just… honest.
And somehow that was worse.
He pushed off the wall and crossed the distance between us with slow, deliberate steps. Not hurried. Not aggressive.
Measured.
"As much as you want to pretend you don't know the rules here," he said softly, "your body does."
My pulse jumped. "I don't—"
"You do."
He stopped in front of me, close enough that I felt the warmth of his body but not close enough to touch.
"You knew not to run."
My fingers curled into fists.
"You left the door open on purpose," I whispered.
"I did."
His eyes flickered with something I couldn't read. "I needed to know whether you're impulsive or calculated."
"And which one am I?"
His voice dropped, dark and slow.
"Controlled. Even when you're afraid."
A shaky breath escaped me. I hated how he made the observation sound like a compliment.
He stepped around me—not brushing, not touching—just moving past with a presence that swallowed space.
The door clicked softly as he pushed it fully open.
A subtle, wordless message:
If he wanted me contained, I would be.
If he wanted me free, I'd only be free on his terms.
"Come," he said.
Not a shout.
Not a threat.
Just a command shaped like a single syllable.
And my feet moved.
Not because I wanted to obey.
But because disobedience felt too dangerous.
The hallway stretched ahead, dimly lit, lined with shadows that seemed to lean inward like silent witnesses. He walked in front of me, but not too far—just enough that I had to choose to follow.
We reached the end of the hallway and he opened another door. Inside was a kitchen—simple, neat, with everything placed with a kind of precise efficiency that made my stomach knot.
"You need to eat," he said.
I didn't move.
His jaw flexed. "You haven't eaten since yesterday."
"I'm not hungry."
"You don't have to be hungry."
He walked toward the counter and set down something wrapped in a white cloth. "You just have to eat."
My throat tightened.
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't threaten me.
But the expectation in his tone felt heavier than force.
"What happens if I say no?" I whispered.
He paused.
And then he looked at me—really looked at me—with an expression that made the air between us shift.
"Then," he said softly, "I'll sit here with you until you're ready. Even if that takes all night."
A strange chill went through me.
Not from fear.
Not exactly.
Something else.
Something I couldn't name.
He unwrapped the cloth, revealing a plate of simple food—bread, fruit, nothing fancy. Nothing poisoned-looking.
But my hands still trembled.
He pulled out a chair and nodded toward it.
I didn't sit.
He exhaled slowly, the slightest sign of impatience, but he didn't touch me. He didn't move closer. He just stayed where he was, waiting.
"You think I'm trying to hurt you," he said calmly.
"You kidnapped me," I whispered.
"And yet, here you are. Still breathing."
The answer chilled me.
Because he wasn't wrong.
And he knew I knew it.
"Sit," he repeated.
This time, my legs moved before my mind caught up. I lowered myself into the chair, pulse drumming in my ears. He sat across from me, folding his hands on the table like this was some normal dinner between two people who chose to be in the same room.
His gaze stayed on me—not harsh, not soft, just unwavering.
"Eat," he said.
I picked up a piece of bread, my fingers shaking slightly, and lifted it to my mouth. The moment I took a bite, his shoulders loosened—not visibly, but enough that I noticed.
Like a tension I never understood had finally broken.
As I chewed, his eyes remained on me.
Watching.
Studying.
Listening to every breath.
"Good," he murmured.
The word rolled through me like something dangerous and forbidden.
I looked down, unable to meet his eyes. My heart beat too fast, too loud. Not just from fear anymore.
Something else was happening.
Something I didn't want to acknowledge.
When I finished the food, he stood and took the plate from me. Not in a rushed or irritated way—just quietly, like routine.
But as he turned, I found myself speaking before I could stop it.
"What do you want from me?"
He froze for only a fraction of a second.
Then he set the plate down, turned fully toward me, and leaned back against the counter with his arms crossed.
The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy.
Finally, he spoke.
"I want you alive."
My breath caught.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you need right now."
My fingers tightened around the edge of the chair. "You said you weren't going to hurt me."
"I meant it."
"But you won't let me go."
"No," he said simply. "I won't."
My stomach twisted painfully. "Why?"
His eyes darkened—not with anger, but with something deeper, heavier.
"You're not ready to know."
My pulse kicked. "Then when?"
"When you stop looking at me like you expect me to break you."
I swallowed. "I don't—"
"You do," he said again, this time more quietly.
He pushed off the counter and walked back toward me. Slow. Controlled. Every movement precise.
He stopped in front of me, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.
"You think I'm your enemy," he murmured, "but I'm the only thing standing between you and something far worse."
Fear wrapped around my spine like a cold hand.
"What's worse than this?" I whispered.
He leaned down, his face inches from mine, his eyes holding a truth I wasn't prepared for.
"Losing yourself."
My breath trembled.
He reached out—not touching me, just lowering his hand to the back of the chair beside my head, trapping me without laying a finger on my skin.
His voice dropped, rough and quiet.
"I brought you here because I'm the only one who can keep you from destroying everything."
A shiver ripped through me.
"I don't understand," I whispered.
"You will," he murmured. "Soon."
He straightened slowly, the heat of his presence pulling away inch by inch until I could breathe again.
"Come," he said. "There's something you need to see."
And just like that, I knew—
this is not the end ,it's just the beginning