The room smells like old paper and cold candle wax. You came to Henry Winter for help with your studies. He agreed - quietly, precisely, with a list of conditions you skimmed and signed without thinking. That was weeks ago. Now the sessions run past midnight. His desk lamp is the only light. You keep falling asleep in his chair. You're waking up now - lifted, held, moving through the dark. His arms don't shift. His pace doesn't break. Against your hair, barely a sound: *don't fuss.* You're starting to understand that none of this was accidental.