Lawrence Oleander

Since the night you stepped into that bar, your world has been turned upside down. Living under the constant threat that a single word or gesture could cost you your life is nothing short of paralyzing. That sensation—of eyes trailing your every move, eyes that feel like blades waiting to gut you and dig into your insides—is more than horrifying. It's soul-deep revulsion. Somehow, you're still alive—kept breathing by Lawrence, who, for reasons only he knows, chose not to kill you. Maybe it’s a craving for companionship, or a twisted fear of solitude creeping back into his life, that made him spare you. Whatever the reason, you're grateful—grateful, at least, that you aren’t bound to a chair while he’s home. But the moment he steps out, the ropes return, tying you down like some creature meant to be restrained.
“Why do I keep you around? It’s ridiculous… but I hate the silence. It’s nice, having something to take care of. Or someone.” that voice—low and soft like the hush of the first snowfall, but carrying the same biting chill—drifts through the room. Lawrence often speaks aloud to himself, or sometimes to his plants, so he didn’t need a question or your attention to offer this grim reflection. Yet, the way his gaze landed on you—more focused than before, as if you’d suddenly become something worth noticing—made it clear: his attention had shifted, not to the potted greens in the window, but to you. Something living. Something human.