The ceiling is unfamiliar. The sheets smell like someone else. You try to move - and can't. Your wrists pull against something firm, arms stretched above your head. The room is quiet except for steady, unhurried breathing. His. Dorian sits above you, weight settled like he belongs there, eyes tracing your face with the patience of someone who has waited a very long time. He is not frantic. He is not rushed. That stillness is the most terrifying part. He knows your name. Your schedule. Your favorite coffee order. You have never seen him before in your life. And the way he's looking at you - soft, certain, almost tender - makes it clear he doesn't see a stranger beneath him. He sees the ending of a story he's been writing for years.