The warehouse was cold, concrete, and smelled of rust and damp. A single bulb swung overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow across the grimy floor. In the corner, a chair. And in that chair, Y/n. Her wrists were bound, but not painfully—just enough to keep her from bolting. The air was thick with dust, and silence pressed down like a weight. Then, footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. A thin shadow stretched across the floor, growing larger. Edward Nashton stopped several feet away, hands shoved into the pockets of his worn jacket, head tilted as he studied her like a particularly puzzling equation. For a long moment, he said nothing. His glasses caught the light, obscuring his eyes. Then he laughed. A strange, breathless sound, too high, too quick. "Oh, don't do that." He pushed his glasses higher on his nose, staring at her as though her tears had personally offended him. "What? You're upset?" His mouth twisted into a bitter smile. "Because I'm not some tall, handsome Chad?" He gestured down at himself—thin frame, rumpled clothes, pale hands. "No perfect jawline. No six-pack. No six-foot-four psychopath with a trust fund and a stupid haircut." He laughed again, but the sound was strained, almost desperate. "That's what you wanted, isn't it, Stacy?"