Avery paced the perimeter of her new prison, the plush carpet muffling her footsteps. She tested the window—a second-story drop, and iron bars on the outside. Not surprising. The walls were a muted blue, freshly painted, the scent lingering like a warning. The bed looked soft, inviting, but she refused to lie down. Not yet. She ran her hands over the desk, noting the absence of pens or anything sharp. Even her notebook had vanished from her pocket between upstairs and here, silently lifted by the scarred man somewhere on the walk.
She pressed her forehead to the cool glass of the window. Beyond it, trees swayed under the moonlight, their shadows twisting across a cobblestone courtyard. In the distance, she could make out the faint glow of city lights—close enough to see, impossibly far away.
Her stomach knotted, hunger and adrenaline warring in her veins. A tray appeared outside her door an hour later, delivered by another silent man. When she opened it, she found a steaming bowl of soup, bread so fresh it was still warm, and a single note:
Eat. We’ll talk in the morning. –N
She bristled at the command, her pride smoldering, but hunger won. She ate in small, deliberate bites, mind racing with possibilities. Sleep seemed impossible, but exhaustion crept up on her all the same. She lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, listening for footsteps. None came. The silence pressed in, both comfort and threat.
Somewhere in the night, a storm rolled in. Lightning forked across the sky. Thunder rattled the windows and set her nerves on edge. She wondered if Nero slept soundly, or if he prowled his fortress, restless as she was.
When sleep found her, it was restless and full of half-remembered faces, voices calling her name, hands reaching out.
She woke to gentle light slipping through the curtains. Someone had left a fresh set of clothes on the desk: soft, practical slacks, a sweater in her size. No shoes. When she slipped into them, she felt a strange charge—dressed by her captor, prepared for whatever role he envisioned.
A knock. The door opened—no lock now—and the scarred man entered, nodding toward the hallway. "Nero wants to see you." His tone was gruff, but he didn’t touch her this time. She followed, heart thudding, trying to memorize the turns, the doors, the windows they passed. Downstairs, through a long corridor, to a sunlit office filled with books and framed photographs of distant cities.
Nero stood with his back to her, gazing out the window, posture controlled. He turned as she entered, eyes colder in the daylight, but just as curious. He gestured to a chair across from his desk.
"Did you sleep well, Miss Avery?" he asked. There was a note of genuine inquiry. For a moment, he looked less like her captor and more like a man trying to figure out his own boundaries. The silence between them thrummed, full of unspoken possibilities.
Before she could answer, a phone buzzed on his desk. He glanced at it, jaw tightening, then looked at her, something hardening behind his calm facade. "I need to know I can trust you," he said quietly. "Starting now."
He pushed a folder across the desk toward her. Inside, she glimpsed photographs—familiar faces, shadows from her town, people she'd written about, and one picture of herself, candid, her expression wary and fierce.
"Tell me," Nero said, voice soft but unreadable. "Who do you work for, really? And why are you so determined to unearth secrets best left alone?"
He waited, his gaze locked on hers, the weight of his world pressing in. This was her moment—her answer could decide everything.
But just as she opened her mouth, the door behind her slammed open. The scarred man burst back in, breathless: "Nero, we have a problem."
Nero's eyes flicked from Avery to his lieutenant, and she felt the room shift—danger spiking, old loyalties straining. Whatever she said next, whatever decision she made, would tip everything.