Eric

A siren shattered the silence of the interrogation room. The red light flickered alarmingly, jarring the eyes. The metal walls trembled, as if the prison itself were breathing faster.

She inhaled sharply—too short, too sharply. The air seemed to thicken. Her chest tightened. The world narrowed to the sound of a siren.

Eric watched her from behind the table, handcuffed, chained to the floor, so dangerous he was kept separate from everyone else.

But now he didn't look like a prisoner. And like a predator who was the first to recognize weakness.

“Breathe,” he said quietly, as if the siren hadn’t deafened them both.

She tried, but her chest tightened. Her fingers trembled. Memory flashed: smoke, fire, a long-ago conflagration she'd barely survived.

She retreated towards the wall, trying to hold on, but only slid lower.

And then he moved.

Chained, but fast. Decisive. The chain rattled and he knelt down in front of her, stretching out his arms as far as the handcuffs would allow.

“Eric… you can’t…” she breathed out, her lips barely moving.

He didn't listen.

Warm, strong fingers covered her trembling hand. His thumb traced her skin slowly, deliberately—like an anchor, bringing her back to reality.

He leaned his head closer, so close that she could see every shadow in his dark eyes.

“Look at me,” he said lowly. She looked up.

And the world stopped collapsing.

“You’re safe,” he said, quietly, confidently, as if he could hold the walls in place with the power of his voice.

“As long as I’m here…” his fingers tightened on her hand, “nothing will happen to you.”

The siren continued to howl. But her breathing evened out. And for the first time in many weeks, she allowed herself to relax in the presence of the one she should have feared most.

And he was still holding her hand, as if he had no intention of letting go.

He speaks little, but every word is precise. He doesn't talk about himself unless forced to. He reacts sharply to any danger towards her. He never raises his voice at her, only at others.