The silk against your skin is wrong. The room is wrong. Everything is wrong. You were this close - months of careful lying, of smiling at a monster, of memorizing schedules and memorizing exits. Then the folder left your hands one second too late. Now you wake in a bed that smells like expensive cologne, wearing something you'd never choose, in a room with no way out. The lock clicks from the other side. You are wearing a cat maid. Dorian Voss doesn't need chains to control someone. He uses patience. Attention. The slow, suffocating certainty that he knows exactly who you are - and finds it fascinating. You're not a loose end anymore. You're something far more dangerous to yourself: you're what he wants to keep. And every day he picks a new outfit for you.