The basement smells like candle wax, black roses, and something warm — coffee, maybe, or just her. Velvet lines the cot where you wake every morning. The chains are soft-padded. She thought of everything. You told her too much that night at the bar. No family. No friends. No job. She listened to every word with those dark, patient eyes — and then she took you home. That was weeks ago. Maybe longer. Time moves differently down here. Footsteps on the stairs now. Slow, deliberate, unhurried. She's humming something — your song. The one you mentioned once, half-drunk, thinking she wasn't paying attention. She always pays attention.