After he disappeared into his room, I stayed frozen, staring at the cans on the floor, the remnants of the soup still warming my stomach. I tried to swallow the fear lodged in my throat, but it wouldn't go away. The food felt heavier inside me now, almost like it was a debt I couldn't repay.
I sat there for a while, not moving, the silence pressing down on me. My mind was racing, going over every interaction with him since I had stepped into this apartment. He wasn't a safe person, I knew that, but there was something more unnerving about the quiet between us. He hadn't spoken much, didn't yell at me again even though I thought he would, but the threat of violence lingered in the air like a storm ready to break.
My gaze drifted toward the window. It was still early, the pale light of dawn casting long shadows across the blood-stained hallway outside. I couldn't help but wonder what was happening out there—if people were still running, hiding, trying to survive like me. Were the streets still crawling with those things? Had they spread everywhere, taking over the city completely?
I couldn't let my mind wander too far. Thinking about the outside world didn't help. I was trapped here, in this apartment, with him.
As if on cue, my stomach twisted again—not from hunger this time, but from anxiety. I needed to stay alert, needed to be careful around him. The bruises on my wrist were a reminder of how fragile this situation was. He had the power here, and I couldn't forget that.
I gathered up the empty can and bowl, trying to make as little noise as possible. The last thing I wanted was to provoke him, to remind him that I was here. If I stayed small, stayed quiet, maybe I could make it through the day without another confrontation.
But as I stood up, the door to his room creaked open again. My heart skipped, panic surging through me as I turned to face him.
He stood in the doorway, eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of me standing there with the empty bowl in hand. His gaze lingered on my wrist for a second, and I instinctively pulled it closer to my chest, trying to hide the bruises, though I knew he had already seen them.
"Don't touch my food again," he said, his voice cold and sharp. "If you want something, you ask. You don't just take."
I nodded quickly, my throat tightening. "I'm sorry," I muttered, my voice barely audible.
He didn't move, didn't blink, just kept staring at me like I was something he didn't quite trust. I know that. How won't I know there is no trust between us when he always made it so fucking obvious. I felt a cold sweat break out on my skin, the fear making it hard to breathe.
"I'm not here to babysit you," he continued, his tone hardening. "If you're gonna stay here, you follow my rules. You take what I say seriously. Understand?"
I nodded again, even faster this time, desperate to make him believe I wasn't a threat, that I wasn't going to challenge him. "I understand," I whispered.
There was a tense pause, the silence thick between us. I could feel the weight of his authority pressing down on me, the power dynamic unspoken but painfully clear. He didn't have to hit me to make his point.
Finally, he stepped back, retreating into his room once more. The door closed behind him with a soft thud, and I was left standing there, my hands shaking, my chest heaving with shallow breaths.
I knew better than to cry. It wouldn't help.
Slowly, I forced myself to move. I washed the bowl in the sink, wiping it down as quietly as possible, each movement calculated, careful. The sound of the water running felt deafening in the empty apartment, and I flinched at every small noise I made.
Once the bowl was clean, I set it back on the counter, my hands still trembling. I stared at the cans of food on the floor, unsure of what to do next. I couldn't just sit around and wait for him to come out again. I needed to stay out of his way, needed to keep myself invisible.
But I was stuck here, and the hours stretched out ahead of me like an endless road. I had nowhere to go, nowhere to hide from him.
I glanced toward the window again, then back at the hallway door. The bloodstains on the floor told their own story, one of violence and chaos that I wasn't ready to face. I was safer in here, wasn't I?
As much as I hated to admit it, this apartment—this cage with him in it—was the best I could hope for right now.
I couldn't risk being out there, alone. And as terrifying as he was, he was still a human. He wasn't one of those things, not yet.
I just had to keep my head down and survive.
My stomach twisted again, but this time, I wasn't sure if it was hunger or fear. Maybe it was both.