4. The threat outside

The wind screamed against the windows, sharp and erratic, as if something out there was trying to claw its way in.

You sat on the edge of the bed, spine straight, the weight of the silence pressing heavy against your chest. He watched you from across the room, his gaze unreadable, but not unknowing. His presence, as always, was absolute—grounded, calm. A storm in control.

Then came the knock.

Not loud. Not rushed.

Just… deliberate.

Like it had knocked before. Many times.

Your blood ran cold.

He moved toward the door, already alert, already reaching for something you couldn’t see.

“Stay back,” he said, low, not harsh—but final.

You didn’t move. Not because of his command.

Because you knew that knock.

There’s a silence only people who’ve lived in cages recognize—a silence made of footsteps, breath, and fear.

And it just walked up to your door.

His voice cuts the stillness.

“Who is it?”

No reply. But you can almost hear the smile on the other side.

You shift slightly, fingers curling into the sheets. You want to say it. You want to speak the name you’ve locked inside your chest. But your throat tightens.

He looks over at you—sharp, assessing.

He sees the shift in your eyes, the way your calm has cracked at the edges.

And he understands.

Not the details.

But enough.

He (quietly):

“You know them.”

You nod once.

He doesn't ask again.

The knock comes again—closer this time. Not to the door, but to your mind. It pulls memories from places you buried years ago. You see a hand—never raised, but always heavy. A voice—never loud, but always in your head.

And the moment.

The moment you stopped being theirs.

The moment they bled.

You clench your jaw. Look up. And meet his eyes.

You:

“There are parts of me you don’t know.”

He doesn't flinch.

He just says,

“Show me.”

Outside, the knock turns into a whisper.

Your name. Drawn out like a thread unraveling.

They want you afraid.