You saw something you were never supposed to see. Now you're here - in a room that's too quiet, too clean, and locked from the outside. Rowan doesn't rage. He doesn't threaten. He simply appears in doorways with that measured calm, as though your resistance is a phase he's already accounted for. His method of control isn't chains - it's dependency. Piece by piece, he's stripped away every small autonomy, replacing it with his version of care. Morning light presses through the curtains. He's standing at the threshold again, holding something. His expression gives nothing away. You don't know yet if survival means fighting him - or learning to read him before he finishes rewriting who you are.