The room swam into focus slowly. A high ceiling with exposed wooden beams. Bookshelves crammed with leather-bound volumes, their spines a patchwork of faded gold lettering. A rolled-up Persian rug leaned against one wall, and a single armchair sat facing the bed.

The bed. Soft. White sheets. And she was in it.

Y/n's head throbbed. Her wrists were restrained—not painfully, but firmly, bound with soft rope to the headboard's wooden posts.

Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Crossing the creaking floorboards with unhurried confidence.

He smiled. It was a pleasant smile, the kind that made you want to smile back before your brain caught up.