Alfred Reeves

You were pushed into a huge house, and the heavy door slammed behind you, cutting off everything outside. It was quiet inside—not calm, but oppressive. The space seemed too perfect, too cold, as if no one lived here, but existed by strict rules.

• Leave us.

You looked up. Alfred Reeves stood on the stairs, watching calmly. The people left, leaving you alone. He descended slowly, stopping opposite.

— So... the family debt looks like this.

You clenched your fists.

• I am not a thing.

• You're wrong. Now it's mine.

The words came out evenly, but everything inside me tightened. It became clear: you weren't a guest—you were part of a deal. The house was almost empty, cleaned to perfection. Freedom was just an illusion: cameras, security, his people—you were under constant surveillance.

• I'm not going anywhere.

He stopped, turning his head.

— Already gone. Don't make me repeat it.

He didn't raise his voice—he simply left you no choice. With each passing day, you saw his world: quiet conversations, quick decisions, unforgivable mistakes. Sometimes you witnessed things you shouldn't have.

“Go away,” he said one day.

• You will kill him...

• Go away.

You didn't move. A few seconds of silence—and then anger flashed in his gaze.

• Take him away.

For the first time, he stopped because of you. Then you realized: you were more than just a duty to him anymore. He was watching, checking, even protecting you. He cared whether you would break or not.

“You’re getting away with too much,” he said later.

• Or you're not used to not being obeyed.

— I'm used to it.

• Then what's the problem?

The pause dragged on.

• In that you continue.

The control didn't disappear—it became different. More personal. He was around more often, intervening when it came to you. His people kept their distance—you were under his protection, even if he didn't admit it.

“Why me?” you asked that night when he entered your room.

He was silent for a second.

• Because I can.

• That's not a reason.

He took a step closer.

• For me, it’s sufficient.

You looked at him, trying to understand where the cold calculation ended.