The first morning started with a mistake.
Elian brewed the coffee too weak.
Leonhart sipped it once, set the cup down with a clink that echoed louder than a scream in the sterile, sunlit kitchen.
He didn't raise his voice. That would've been almost kind.
He stood, walked over, and stopped a breath away from Elian—who was trying not to shrink, not to tremble. Failing.
"I don't drink water with a hint of bitterness," Leonhart said, voice low, disgusted. "I drink coffee."
"I'm—" Elian started, then shut his mouth. Not an excuse. He'd said too much.
But Leonhart only smiled. "Try again."
Elian nodded, took the cup with both hands, and retreated to the counter like a man escaping execution. His hands shook so hard the glass nearly slipped.
Behind him, Leonhart watched like a hawk. Or a wolf. Or something worse—something that didn't kill you right away.
When Elian set the corrected cup on the table again, he held his breath.
Leonhart drank.
A beat of silence.
Then: "Acceptable."
It was the closest thing to praise Elian would get that day.
---
By noon, Elian had already made the bed with military corners, printed Leonhart's schedule in two font sizes, arranged the vitamin pills in color order, and been told he blinked too loudly once.
By evening, Leonhart summoned him again—no reason, just a gesture. A crooked finger from his spot on the sofa.
Elian came.
"You haven't spoken all day," Leonhart said, flipping through a glossy report without looking up.
"You told me not to speak unless spoken to," Elian answered quietly.
Leonhart's eyes lifted—sharp, amused. "And you listened."
"I try to."
"You don't look like someone who listens. You look like someone who bottles things up until they snap."
Elian hesitated. "Would that be a problem?"
Leonhart's mouth curled. "No. That would be entertaining."
Elian didn't answer. He didn't trust himself to.
---
That night, as Elian folded Leonhart's suit jackets, a thought curled around his mind like smoke:
> I can't keep living like this.
But he had no rent, no job, no backup plan.
And somehow… even beneath the cruelty, there was something else.
The way Leonhart looked at him sometimes—like he was trying to carve something out of Elian, not destroy him. Like he wanted to see what Elian would become under pressure.
Like he wanted Elian to fight.
---
Chapter 4 Preview:
Elian finally talks back over a small injustice—and Leonhart's reaction is strange: not angry, but intrigued.
Leonhart starts controlling what Elian wears.
One night, Leonhart returns drunk, unguarded, and dangerous—