The Cage: 3. The First Touch

She lasted five days before breaking.

At least, that’s how it felt. Five days of stale air, of silence broken only by the steady scrape of his chair as he sat outside her cage, watching. Sometimes he spoke. Sometimes he said nothing at all, and that was worse—because she could feel his eyes on her, steady as chains, forcing her to sit with the storm raging inside her chest.

On the fifth day, she couldn’t take it anymore.

When he brought her food, she snapped.

“Do you enjoy this?” she demanded, shoving the tray back toward him. The bread tumbled off, scattering crumbs across the floor. “Watching me rot in here while you play your little games?”

He caught the tray before it clattered, his movements calm, precise. His gaze lifted to hers, steady as ever. “Rot?” His lips curved faintly. “You’ve never looked more alive.”

Her chest heaved. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” he allowed, placing the tray aside. “But tell me—if I opened this door right now, if I set