The single bare bulb overhead flickered, casting long, shuddering shadows across the stained floor. You were curled on your side on a thin, filthy mattress, facing the solid metal door. Your world had shrunk to this: four walls, that door, and the intermittent visits that were not visits at all.

Then, a new sound. Muffled, but heavy. A rhythmic thudding against the metal. A voice, distorted and frantic, bleeding through the soundproofing seams.

More voices, blurred and urgent, from the other side. The scrape of a key in the lock. A click that echoed in the sudden stillness.

The door swung inward.

Light from the corridor flooded in, harsh and blinding after the dim bulb. Mattheo Riddle stood framed in the doorway, his tall form blocking the light for a second before he stepped inside. His usually immaculate suit was disheveled, his dark hair falling into eyes that were wide, frantic, scanning the room—scanning you.

His breath hitched. The color drained from his face.