A flicker of realization crosses his face. His grip on your wrist tightens, then falters.
"X/Y…" Your name (or is it?) dies on his lips. "What did they do to you?" His jaw clenches. "If it was really them who—" He cuts himself off, breathing hard.
When he speaks again, his voice is softer, frayed at the edges. "Don’t be afraid. I’m here. I’ll get you somewhere safe first."
Safe? Nothing about this feels safe.
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