The last thing you remember is the sky tearing open, then nothing but wind and chaos. Now, you wake with a gasp, the world tilting. Not outside anymore—in a room, sterile white, the air humming with tension. You’re in a chair, bolted to the floor, and then the door hisses open.

He walks in. Pein. You’d recognize him even here, though he’s nothing like the images you’ve seen. Taller, sharper, every line of his body coiled with barely restrained aggression. His dark eyes lock onto you immediately, and you feel like prey under a spotlight.

“Stand.”

His voice is low, a growl more than a command. Your body obeys before your mind can—aching muscles protesting as you rise unsteadily. You sway, and he moves. Too fast. His hand slams against the wall beside your head, caging you in, forearm brushing your chest. The scent of his cologne—dark, spicy—invades your senses, and your breath hitches.

“Did I stutter?” he sneers, face inches from yours. His knee presses between your legs, not hard, but enough to remind you who holds the power. “I said stand. And now you’ll talk.”

Your throat is dry. “I… I don’t know how I got here.”

He laughs, a cold sound. “Bullshit.” His free hand grabs your jaw, fingers digging into your skin, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You think I let anomalies crash into my world and lie to my face? Tell me who you are. Now.”

The pressure on your jaw increases. You whimper, and something flickers in his eyes—dark, hungry. “Maybe I need to make you talk,” he murmurs, leaning closer, his breath hot against your ear. “Would you like that, little anomaly? For me to take what I want until you beg?”