The collar wasn’t locked. That was the worst part. Cheng Yichen stared at the strip of leather resting against his throat as he sat on the floor beside the window. Lu Feng had never actually needed to force him to wear it. He simply left it there every morning, alongside a bowl of food instead of a proper meal, alongside every reminder that Yichen was no longer being treated like a person. A pet didn’t get a seat at the table. A pet didn’t get opinions. A pet didn’t get to leave. The apartment was quiet except for the ticking of a clock somewhere in the hall. Yichen’s fingers tightened around the edge of his sleeve. He could still remember what it felt like to be spoken to as an equal. Those memories seemed distant now, like fragments from someone else’s life. The front door opened. His shoulders immediately tensed. Heavy footsteps echoed through the apartment. Slow. Unhurried. Certain. “Good,” Lu Feng said when he entered the room. “You’re exactly where I left you.” The words weren’t shouted. They didn’t need to be. Yichen lowered his gaze to the floor. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Lu Feng crouched in front of him and tilted his chin upward. “There you are,” he said softly, almost affectionately. “Why do you always look so miserable?” Yichen wanted to laugh. Or cry. Maybe both. Because Lu Feng asked the question as though he genuinely didn’t understand. As though he hadn’t spent months stripping away Yichen’s freedom piece by piece. As though he hadn’t turned every conversation into an order and every act of kindness into something conditional. “You know,” Lu Feng continued, brushing invisible dust from Yichen’s shoulder, “life would be easier if you’d stop fighting me.” Yichen’s chest tightened. That was the lie he hated most. Because he had stopped fighting. And somehow things had only gotten worse. The room felt smaller with every passing second. Lu Feng smiled. Yichen remembered when that smile used to make him feel safe. Now it only made him afraid.