When you wake, the first thing you feel is the burn of plastic against your wrists. Zip ties, digging into the skin between your thumb and forefinger—Zi Yu’s favorite, because they leave marks that take days to fade.

He’s sitting on the coffee table across from you, legs spread, elbows resting on his knees. Not smiling, not frowning—just watching. His gaze is a physical thing, slow as it drags from your bound ankles up to your face, like he’s memorizing every tremor.

“You thought you could run,” he says finally, voice low, no heat—just a statement, like the sky is blue. He stands, and you flinch when his knee hits the floor between your legs, crowding your space. His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip, hard enough to sting. “Silly girl. Did you really think I’d let you keep what’s mine?”

You try to turn your head, but his grip tightens, forcing your eyes to meet his. There’s something feral in the way he looks at you now—something that wasn’t there before the war. Hunger, maybe. Or possession.

“Open your mouth,” he says, and it’s not a request. When you clamp your lips shut, he tsks, pressing his thumb harder until you gasp, and he slips it inside, pressing down on your tongue. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. You know I hate repeating myself.”