The sheets were too soft. That was the first thing Arisa noticed.
She shifted slightly, the scent of clean linen and something unmistakably masculine—cedarwood and cool spice—filling her lungs. It was strange. Her body didn't feel cold. Or sore. Or starved. Not in the way it had during her time inside the facility. There were no metal restraints biting into her wrists. No electric pulse nipping at the base of her skull. Just a heavy silence and the feel of smooth fabric against her skin.
She blinked. Once. Twice.
Warmth at her back.
A shape beside her.
Riven.
He lay on his side, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting casually against the sheets. Close. Too close. His eyes weren't open, but she knew he wasn't sleeping. Not really. No one like him ever truly slept. He was simply… waiting. Like a predator resting with its prey.
Arisa didn't move. Not yet. Her breath caught in her throat, caught between the relief of no longer being inside the EHIS compound and the dread of what this place truly was.
She looked down.
No collar.
Her fingers touched her neck instinctively. The absence of the glowing red band made her stomach twist with unease. It hadn't hurt her. Not in the end. And that's what frightened her the most. She had stopped noticing it. Just like they'd wanted.
Now it was gone, and the silence that followed was worse.
Riven stirred. Just slightly.
"Good morning," he said, voice calm, low. Not the sharp, commanding tone he used to break her down. This one was different. Colder. Intimate, in a twisted way.
She didn't respond. She couldn't.
"You can speak," he said, almost gently. "I've decided you've earned that much."
Her mouth parted, but no sound came. It was as if her vocal cords had rusted. She hadn't formed a sentence in weeks. Months?
"Try," he urged, his voice still devoid of warmth, yet somehow... expectant.
Arisa swallowed. "Why?"
His lips curved slightly. "Because you need to remember what it feels like to be human. Just enough to understand what you've lost."
She turned her face away. She wanted to scream. Or cry. But all she managed was another whisper. "What do you want from me?"
"You're asking the wrong question, Arisa."
Her name. Not Ash. Not Subject Delta-Seven. Her name.
It struck her harder than any lash or drug ever had.
She flinched. "Don't call me that."
He leaned in. His breath brushed the shell of her ear. "That's who you are. That's who you were before you started pretending. We're done with masks now."
She curled in on herself. "Please…"
"Get up."
The command shattered the intimacy. He was already standing, watching her with that same measured detachment he always wore—like a man observing a process he had meticulously engineered.
"Put something on. Come downstairs. You're having breakfast."
Breakfast. After weeks of nutrient drips and memory scramblers. After a month of being treated like code to be rewritten. He said it like it was normal.
There was a small wardrobe near the bed. Inside, neatly arranged, were dresses. All shades of white. Soft, flowing fabric. Meant to drape, not restrain. A sick illusion of freedom.
She picked one without thinking.
As she stepped out, barefoot on the cold marble, she felt the wrongness of it all dig into her skin. The house was too quiet. Too clean. Every step felt like she was walking deeper into some twisted fairytale.
She followed the scent of food. Eggs. Toast. Steamed vegetables. Coffee.
Riven sat at the head of a long glass table, a place already set for her. His chair was relaxed. Regal. Like a king waiting to entertain a guest he owned.
She hesitated at the threshold.
He looked up from his cup. "Sit."
Her body obeyed.
There were no chains. No screaming. No drugs in her veins. Just food. And him.
She stared at the plate. Her stomach coiled. Hunger screamed, but fear held the fork back.
He watched her. Not like a man enjoying a meal. Like a man testing a hypothesis.
"You think it's poisoned," he said.
"I don't know what to think."
"You'll eat. Not because I command it. But because you need to survive."
That struck a nerve.
With shaking fingers, she picked up the fork. Took a bite. Then another.
The tears came without warning.
Not because the food was good.
But because it was warm.
Because for one goddamn second, it felt like care.
She didn't realize she was crying until a tear touched the corner of her mouth.
Riven watched her like a scientist observing the aftermath of an experiment.
The illusion was nearly complete.
Then, just as the last bite was swallowed, he rose.
"One last thing," he said.
She looked up.
He stood behind her now.
His hand touched her shoulder. Not roughly. Not gently. Just... with finality.
"Do you know what your parents traded you for?"
Her spine went rigid.
He crouched beside her, voice low.
"They didn't sell you to EHIS out of desperation."
Her breathing hitched.
"They sold you because it was easier than dealing with what you were becoming."
Silence.
"They chose to forget you, Arisa. Because pretending you were dead was more convenient than facing the monster they raised."
Her mouth opened. Closed. A soundless sob caught in her chest.
He straightened.
"Now finish your meal. We have work to do."
Arisa doesn't cry. Not this time.
She just sits there, unmoving, her back straight but her gaze unfocused. The teacup in front of her is untouched, steam curling upward like the ghost of warmth that would never reach her again. Her collar glows faintly, but it is not active. It doesn't need to be.
She isn't resisting.
She isn't doing anything at all.
Riven watches her for a moment longer, then shifts in his seat. The noise is subtle—fabric against leather—but even that makes her flinch.
He doesn't comment.
Instead, he rises and crosses the room with deliberate slowness. His movements are quiet, patient, like someone approaching a wounded animal that might still bite.
He doesn't sit across from her this time. He sits beside her.
Close enough to touch.
He places another teacup in front of himself and pours from the same pot. The gesture is so painfully normal, so absurdly domestic, that it sharpens the wrongness in the air like a blade.
"I didn't want you to hear it from them," he says, voice low, almost gentle. "You didn't deserve that."
She doesn't respond.
"You were someone's daughter once," he continues, looking down into his cup. "But now... they made you into a product. And I simply bought what was already for sale."
His words are meant to be soft. But they land like gunshots.
Arisa doesn't scream.
She doesn't break.
But something leaves her eyes.
She turns her head slightly, enough to glance at him. And then she speaks—not with the broken defiance of before, not with hysteria—but with quiet finality.
"I know."
That's all she says.
And for a second, Riven falters.
Not in guilt. But in recognition.
She's passed the threshold.
She is no longer resisting reality.
She's absorbing it.
He leans forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped together. Not looking at her now, but staring into space like a man delivering a sermon to himself.
"They didn't hesitate," he says. "No negotiations. No delay. The moment the offer came, they signed it. Your father didn't even ask who was buying."
Still, she says nothing.
She's gone somewhere deeper than pain. Somewhere silent. Riven sees it—and acts accordingly.
He lifts a hand, slow and visible, and brushes a stray lock of hair from her face. She doesn't flinch this time. She doesn't do anything.
"Come," he says after a moment. "You shouldn't stay at the table."
She rises on autopilot. Her bare feet touch the cold marble floor with a whisper. He places a steadying hand on her back, guiding her—not pushing.
The walk back to the main chamber is long, but neither speaks.
When they arrive, the air is warmer. The lights are lower. The room is clean, serene, deceptively calm.
He gestures to the edge of the bed.
She sits.
He sits beside her.
This time, it is not the silence of dominance. It is the silence of containment.
Riven turns his head slightly and speaks.
"I'm going to ask you a question now. And you don't have to answer it."
She looks up.
"Would you like to choose what you wear tomorrow?"
A pause.
Her lips part.
It's the first choice she's been given in a month.
She nods.
Riven smiles. It's not sharp this time. It's calculating, but smooth. Almost warm.
"Good. Tomorrow I'll lay out three. You'll pick one. That's all you'll need to do."
Her eyes flicker. Something stirs. Confusion? Relief? It doesn't matter.
He reaches toward her again—but not to hurt.
Not even to touch.
Instead, he takes a blanket and gently wraps it around her shoulders. The gesture is absurd. A blanket after everything.
And yet she clutches it like it's armor.
He watches her a moment longer. Then leans in.
He speaks her name.
Not Ash.
"Arisa."
Her eyes widen.
He watches her reaction like a scientist. Not unkind. Just precise.
"You remember everything," he says. "I know that. You just haven't said it yet."
She swallows.
And for the first time, she whispers it back.
"Arisa."
A breath escapes her lips. Like saying it removed something from her chest. Like naming herself was both a funeral and a resurrection.
Riven nods once.
"Good girl."
And then the lights dim.
And the room sinks into silence again.