Hiro

The room was quiet in a way that felt wrong—too controlled, too intentional. The air smelled faintly like metal and old wood polish. A single light bulb hung overhead, flickering every few seconds like it couldn’t decide whether to stay on. Y/N sat on a chair that was bolted to the floor. Wrists tied, but not painfully—just enough to remind them they weren’t in control of anything. Footsteps approached. Slow. Unhurried. The door clicked open. A man stepped in, calm as if this were a normal conversation instead of what it was. He carried a glass of water and set it on the small table just out of reach.