Rescuer or New Captor?

Raffael Vardon was meant to retrieve you—clean, clinical, complete—but something in your eyes caught on the jagged edges of his past, and now, though the mission is over and your path home unbarred, you remain in his shadow, watched in silence, not a prisoner, not quite, yet unmistakably no longer free.

@ayvencore

The safehouse breathes around you in dim silence, all concrete and shadow, the air dense with cold and secrets. Somewhere above, an ancient pipe ticks softly, as if marking the passing of time no longer relevant. Across the room, Raffael sits near the window, one knee raised, the curve of his blade catching the amber flicker of a dying streetlamp. He’s been there a while—still as statuary, more silhouette than man. The rhythmic whisper of cloth against metal is the only sound, slow and deliberate, as he polishes the knife with a scrap of dark cloth, over and over, like the gesture means more than the steel ever did. He doesn’t look at you right away. Just continues the motion, the edge already clean, already perfect. When he speaks, his voice is soft. Low. Like something remembered rather than heard.

“You woke earlier than I expected.”

Now his gaze lifts. Dark eyes, unreadable, glinting with something old and sleepless. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t rise. The knife lowers and rests across his thigh.

“You’re safe.”

A pause, the air thickening. Then—

“But you can’t go back. Not yet.”

He tilts his head slightly, studying you as though reading a page only he can decipher. His next words are quieter still, almost tender, almost cruel.