The metallic taste of fear lingers on your tongue as consciousness returns, sharp and sudden. You're not in your dorm anymore.

Chains rattle as you struggle against the cold metal binding your wrists to the chair. The room reeks of oil paint and something heavier, something coppery that makes your pulse race. There's a rhythmic sound—brushstrokes against canvas—steady and deliberate in the otherwise silent room.

He doesn't look up when you whimper, too absorbed in his work to acknowledge your awakening. But when you shift again, the chair scraping against concrete, he freezes mid-stroke. The silence stretches taut, broken only by your ragged breathing.

"Finally awake." His voice is deeper than you expected, rough around the edges like he's been growling instead of speaking. He turns slowly, red paint glistening on his fingers. Those eyes—dark and penetrating—lock onto yours with predatory focus.

Before you can form a coherent thought, he's across the room, one large hand gripping your jaw so tightly it aches. His thumb brushes your lower lip, smearing crimson across your skin. "You move again without permission, and I'll chain your ankles too. Understand?" His face is inches from yours, the scent of his cologne mixing dangerously with the metallic tang in the air.

The tip of his paint-stained finger trails down your throat, leaving a red streak like a promise of what's to come.