Evan woke up slowly.
Not because he was rested—he wasn't—but because his body didn't recognize the ceiling above him.
The room was unfamiliar in a way that felt deliberate. Clean lines. Neutral colors. No clutter. No personal touches. A hotel room, if hotels were designed to erase you instead of comfort you.
For a moment, Evan lay still, heart pounding, hoping it had all been a dream.
Then he remembered.
The car.
The building.
Victor Kane's voice.
His fingers tightened into the sheets.
He sat up carefully, half-expecting alarms or footsteps. Nothing happened. The room remained silent, indifferent.
There were no bars on the windows. No locks on the door. No cameras that he could see.
That was worse.
Evan swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. His backpack sat neatly against the wall, exactly where he had left it. Someone had even placed a glass of water on the bedside table.
He stared at it for a long moment before drinking.
The bathroom was attached—modern, spotless, stocked with toiletries he hadn't bought. Everything screamed temporary, as if the room expected him to leave eventually.
Evan splashed water on his face and studied his reflection.
He looked the same. No bruises. No marks. No visible sign that his life had been quietly dismantled overnight.
You're not a prisoner, Victor had said.
Evan almost laughed.
He left the room.
The hallway was wide, carpeted, softly lit. Doors lined the walls—identical, anonymous. Evan walked slowly, listening for voices, footsteps, anything.
The building felt inhabited but empty. Like a place designed to move people through it without letting them stay.
He found the kitchen by accident.
It was large, modern, and fully stocked. A man in plain clothes stood near the counter, scrolling on his phone. He looked up when Evan entered—not startled, not curious.
"Morning," the man said.
Evan hesitated. "Morning."
"There's coffee," the man added, nodding toward the machine. "Victor prefers it strong. You can have it however you want."
Evan stiffened at the casual use of Victor's name.
"Is he… here?" Evan asked.
The man smiled faintly. "Always."
That didn't answer the question.
Evan poured himself coffee, hands steady despite the tension coiled in his chest. No one stopped him. No one questioned him. He could walk out the door, he told himself.
Except he didn't know where the door led.
And Victor would know the moment he tried.
He took his coffee to the window. The view overlooked the city—high enough to make everything look smaller, distant. Evan felt like he was standing above his own life, watching it shrink.
His phone buzzed.
A message appeared on the screen.
Victor: Good morning.
Evan's throat tightened.
Victor: You slept longer than I expected.
Evan stared at the message. His fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Evan: You're watching me.
The reply came instantly.
Victor: I'm responsible for you.
Evan's grip on the phone tightened.
Evan: I want to go home.
There was a pause. Long enough for hope to flicker.
Then—
Victor: This is home for now.
Evan exhaled slowly, forcing himself to stay calm.
Evan: And my life?
Another pause.
Victor: Continues. I'll have a car take you to class.
Evan's heart sank.
He hadn't asked how Victor knew his schedule.
Victor: Eat something. We'll talk later.
The screen went dark.
Evan lowered the phone and took a sip of coffee that tasted too expensive for him. Around him, the building hummed softly, alive with unseen movement.
He realized then what terrified him most.
Victor hadn't taken his freedom.
He had reorganized it.
And Evan, despite everything, felt the smallest, most dangerous thing settle in his chest—
Relief.
Because someone else was deciding now.
And Evan didn't know if he hated that…
or needed it.