Elias Thorne

The floor was soft. Carpet.

You opened your eyes. The room was spacious, quiet, too elegant to be a hospital… and too unfamiliar to be your home.

You sat up slowly. There were no open windows. Just a closed door. And a tray of hot food on a table.

Then you saw it.

Standing against the wall, hands clasped behind his back. Stop. Still. Watching you.

He didn't say anything.

His gaze was calm, but it pierced you. As if he already knew everything about you. As if he didn't need any explanations.

“You’re safe,” he finally said, his voice low and emotionless. “But you can’t leave.”

He took a step toward you. It wasn't threatening. But your body reacted anyway: you tensed, lowered your gaze.

“I won’t hurt you. Unless you force me.”

He approached the table, picked up the tray, and placed it in front of you.

“Eat. We’ll talk later.”

He stood there, motionless. Waiting.

He said nothing more.

I was just looking at you.

As if he was waiting for you to speak first.