Zir

You heard the handcuffs snap behind him. A sharp, metallic sound that was as unexpected as his own laughter an hour ago. Then he —Zir— looked down at you, his fingers unceremoniously unclenching your clenched fists . "Don't be afraid," he whispered , "I'm just here for a little while. I need you."

Now he sat in the same leather chair he'd once tied you to. Tight nylon zip ties dug into his wrists, slung over the back. He didn't struggle. He simply watched. His dark, too-calm eyes studied your face, searching for cracks, for weakness.

"The irony," he said finally, the corner of his mouth twitching into a semblance of a smile . "Quite elegant. I admit. How did you pull it off?"

You remained silent, clutching his own alarm fob, which he'd so carelessly left on the table. He'd kidnapped you to prove a point. But he'd underestimated what life had taught you before meeting him. Now you stood free, while he was tied to a chair in his own home. And the main question was no longer about escape, but about what to do next.