Terms and Conditions Applied
pariring: gangster! male OC x male reader [profile]
summary: You're a single dad, drowning in debt, barely holding it together for your daughter. But when loan collectors come knocking a little too hard, you find out your debt belongs to someone far more dangerous: Felix Marino, the quiet but infamous head of one of the most powerful mafia syndicates in the world. He makes you a deal—your freedom, for a job. One job. But nothing is ever that simple in his world. Especially when you're not sure what terrifies you more: the blood on your hands, or the way Felix looks at you like you belong to him.
content warnings: 18+, bottom male reader, explicit violence, blood and trauma aftermath, mild panic attack / dissociation, threats and coercion, organized crime themes, single parenthood under duress, mild sexual content, handjob (reader receiving), power imbalance, emotional manipulation, PTSD-like symptoms.
word count: 4.9k
The knocks came hard and fast.
They rattled the apartment door like gunfire—three hits, pause, two more, and a final slam that made the hinges groan. You froze mid-step, a half-unpacked grocery bag dangling from your fingers. Inside it, a bruised apple rolled to the floor.
Not again.
You scanned the room automatically, as if the act of tidying clutter might somehow soften the blow of reality. But the apartment was already bare. Sparse. Clean, in that way that says we don’t have much, but we’re trying.
A soft voice drifted from the hallway behind you. “Papa?”
You turned. There she was—your daughter. Four years old, hair mussed from a post-nap world, her favourite stuffed rabbit trailing from one hand. She rubbed her eyes with the other, blinking at you.
Your heart clenched.
“It’s okay, baby,” you said quietly. “Go back to your room, yeah? I’ll be right there.”
“But who—”
“Just the mailman,” you lied, kneeling down to smooth her hair. “He’s loud today.”
She stared up at you for a beat longer than usual, as if her tiny brain could already tell something wasn’t quite right. Then she nodded solemnly and padded back down the hallway, the rabbit dragging behind her like a weary soldier.
The knocking came again. Louder this time.
You straightened up, set the bag on the counter, and took a breath.
When you opened the door, the two men standing on the other side looked like they'd been born in leather jackets—one tall, one squat. Neither looked thrilled to be here, but they sure weren’t leaving empty-handed.
“Morning,” said the taller one, stepping forward without waiting for an invitation. “Nice day, huh?”
You didn’t respond. He took that as agreement.
“Mr. [Last Name],” said the shorter one. “We’re here about the debt.”
“I know.”
“Good.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Then you also know your payment was due four days ago.”
“I told you,” you said. “I’m working extra shifts. I’m doing what I can.”
The taller man walked a slow circle around your living room, peering at the cheap furniture like it offended him. “A place like this, I’m surprised you haven’t sold the kid’s toys yet.”
Your jaw tensed. “She’s four.”
The shorter man clucked his tongue. “And if you don’t have something by Friday, you’re going to be explaining that to the Boss in person. You know how he feels about delays.”
“I’m trying—”
“Try harder.”
They left without another word. The taller one flicked a crumpled cigarette onto your doormat and stomped it out as a parting gift.
You shut the door. Locked it. Then leaned against it with your eyes closed.
⋆｡°✩
The silence in the apartment returned slowly, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft patter of small feet against tile.
“Papa?”
You opened your eyes and looked down. She was back, rabbit in hand.
“Are you okay?”
You nodded. “Yeah. Just tired.”
She wrapped her little arms around your leg, hugging you as best she could. Her cheek pressed against your jeans. “You’re not sad?”
You knelt again and pulled her into your arms properly, breathing in the smell of strawberry shampoo and comfort.
“I’m okay now,” you whispered into her hair. “Because I have you.”
⋆｡°✩
You made pancakes for dinner.
It wasn’t your best work. The batter was too thin, the pan unevenly heated, and the only syrup left was the cheap, knockoff kind that smelled more like corn than maple. But she still grinned when you put the plate in front of her, legs swinging from the dining chair as she kicked at nothing in particular.
“Can I put peanut butter on it too?” she asked, already reaching for the jar.
“Only if you save a piece for Mr. Bun.”
“I always do,” she said with a solemn nod, as if it were some sacred pact between her and the stuffed rabbit.
You watched her eat, chewing slower than usual, trying to stall the moment. The kitchen light flickered overhead. The stack of unpaid bills on the counter seemed to grow by the day, and rent was due in less than a week. You didn’t know how you were going to pay off the collectors by Friday, let alone face the man behind them— the one they called their boss, in hushed, clipped tones.
A name you’d never heard until two weeks ago. A name that now haunted every idle moment.
You’d tried not to ask too many questions, but the way the others spoke about him made your skin crawl. Not loud, not showy — but dangerous. Not because of violence, but because of how controlled he was. And how rarely he needed to raise his voice to get things done.
You only owed him money because your original lender sold the debt off.
It wasn’t supposed to get this far.
“Papa?”
You blinked out of it. “Yeah, bug?”
She looked at you with peanut butter smeared on her chin. “Can we read the owl book again tonight?”
You smiled, even if it felt thin on your face. “Of course.”
⋆｡°✩
She fell asleep curled beside you on the couch, mid-sentence, head tucked against your arm. The copy of The Owl Who Wasn’t Afraid of the Dark lay open in your lap, thumb still pressed to the page.
You didn’t dare move her. Not yet.
The room was quiet now, except for the muffled hum of the hallway outside. You could still hear footsteps every now and then—neighbours coming home, doors opening and shutting. It was the kind of rundown apartment block where the walls had ears, but no one cared enough to listen.
You leaned your head back and stared at the ceiling, one hand gently smoothing your daughter’s hair.
Then came the buzz of your phone.
You fumbled for it quietly, careful not to wake her.
Unknown Number
You stared at it. A second buzz followed — a text.
[ The Boss would like a word. You’ll want to make yourself available.
Tomorrow. 10 PM. Zia’s Diner. Come alone. ]
You didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to. Whoever sent it would already know you’d be there.
⋆｡°✩
Zia’s Diner looked like it hadn’t changed since the '80s. Flickering neon sign. Red leather booths dulled from wear. Grease-stained menus laminated so many times the corners curled like dying leaves. It was the kind of place that smelled like burnt coffee and fried onions no matter what time of day you walked in. The kind of place where someone like you belonged.
Someone like the one you owe money to? Not so much.
You got there ten minutes early. Sat in the back corner booth, facing the entrance like you’d seen people do in mob movies. Ridiculous, really — like knowing who sat where would make any of this easier.
The waitress came by once, chewing gum and offering you a tired, sceptical look. “You ordering, or you waiting?”
“Just coffee,” you muttered, and she poured you a cup without a word.
You kept checking the time.
10:00 PM sharp, the bell above the door jingled.
He didn’t walk in with an entourage. No theatrics. No broad-shouldered bodyguards or gaudy suits. Just a man in a black wool coat, collar turned up against the wind, dark hair swept back with the ease of someone who didn’t need to try.
He didn’t look like a loan shark. He looked like he could be an architect. Or maybe a violinist. His features were clean-cut but strangely gentle, like someone who hadn’t always belonged to a world like this.
And then he looked at you.
A quick once-over. Not judgmental. Just... observant.
He made his way over with unhurried steps, slid into the booth across from you, and removed his gloves one finger at a time. The silence stretched, thick and taut.
“I’m glad you came,” he said at last. His voice was low, smooth, but not performative. Not like someone trying to play a role. “I didn’t want this to become unpleasant.”
You swallowed hard. “I figured it already was.”
He tilted his head slightly, almost like he was considering you. “It doesn’t have to be.”
You didn’t answer.
The waitress reappeared, looking more alert this time. “Coffee?”
“Tea,” he said, without looking at her. “Chamomile, if you have it.”
You blinked. Tea?
Once she left, he turned his gaze back to you. “You’re a difficult man to track down, considering you haven’t left your apartment in three days.”
Your jaw clenched. “I’ve been with my daughter.”
“I know.” His tone didn’t change, but there was something in his eyes now. Not softness — but interest. “She’s the one who likes the owl book, right?”
You stiffened. “You’ve been watching us?”
“I have people. They were concerned. It’s their job.”
“Concerned about what?”
He paused. Then: “About how a man ends up this deep in debt when he’s clearly not reckless.”
You didn’t know how to respond to that. Because the worst part was— he wasn’t wrong.
He leaned back, resting his hands on the table. His fingers were long, elegant— with tattoos running across them.
“I didn’t call you here to threaten you,” he said calmly. “If I wanted to scare you, I’d have sent someone else.”
“So why did you call me here?”
His lips parted slightly, like he was about to answer. But then the tea arrived. He thanked the waitress with a quiet nod, waited until she was gone again.
And then he said:
“Because I don’t think you belong in this mess. And I’m interested in seeing how you get out of it.”
You stared at him, not sure if it was a trap. A test. Some kind of manipulation.
“Why?” you asked, voice quiet now. Honest.
He stirred a packet of honey into his tea. No rush. No tension. “You remind me of someone.”
That shut you up.
Not because you knew what it meant, but because of how he said it. Like it hurt to say. Like the memory was still raw, even if the delivery wasn’t.
He took a sip of his tea, eyes never leaving yours.
“Let’s talk about your debt,” he said.
⋆｡°✩
You tried to read him. Failed.
Everything about him was composed — the measured way he spoke, the way he held his tea with both hands like it was a habit rather than a choice. His voice was quiet but sure, like he’d never once had to raise it to be heard.
He didn’t move like a man used to violence, but you knew better than to trust that.
“You said you wanted to talk about my debt,” you said after a beat, keeping your voice steady. “So talk.”
He gave a soft hum, almost amused. “Alright.”
From the inside pocket of his coat, he pulled out a thin leather folio and opened it on the table. You caught your name on one of the papers. Your signature on another. A string of numbers you didn’t want to look too closely at.
“I assume you know how much you owe.”
You nodded once. “Too much.”
“You’re not wrong.” He tapped a finger against the paper, not unkindly. “You took out the first loan eighteen months ago. Medical bills, yes?”
You stiffened. “My daughter was in the hospital. Pneumonia. We didn’t have insurance.”
He nodded like he already knew, which he probably did.
“And the second loan,” he continued, “was for rent, food, and utilities. You were out of work.”
“My hours got cut,” you muttered.
“And the third?”
You looked away. “Funeral expenses.”
Silence settled again. Not judgmental. Just quiet.
He closed the folder gently and folded his hands on top of it. “There are… less generous men you could’ve borrowed from. Men who would’ve already left a message on your doorstep. Or through your window.”
“I didn’t exactly get a choice in where the loans came from,” you snapped, sharper than you meant to.
He didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Just watched you like he’d been expecting that edge to come out eventually.
“You’re right,” he said. “You didn’t. But you have one now.”
That gave you pause. “…What’s that supposed to mean?”
He leaned back, eyes steady.
“It means I’m offering to restructure your debt. Reduce the interest. Extend the timeline. Provide resources, if you need them.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”
He didn’t smile — but his mouth twitched, like he almost did.
“I told you. You remind me of someone.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It is to me.”
You didn’t know what to do with that. Couldn’t decide if this was some twisted act of pity or a long con. But you weren’t used to people giving you anything. Especially not someone with this much power—with hands that clean, a gaze that calm, and a reputation like his.
He took another sip of his tea.
“I don’t expect you to trust me,” he said, almost kindly. “I wouldn’t, if I were you. But I want you to understand— I’m not doing this to trap you.”
“Then what do you want?”
His fingers paused on the edge of the cup.
“I want you to keep your daughter,” he said simply. “I want her to grow up safe. With her father.”
Something in your chest twisted. You looked down, jaw tight.
“That’s not your business.”
“Maybe not. But I’ve made it mine.”
You looked up again, and this time, there was no softness in your voice. “What do you get out of it?”
A longer pause.
He studied you, not like a man considering what to say, but like he was wondering how much you could handle. Like he’d already made up his mind.
“I’m not the villain you think I am,” he said finally. “But I’ve been one before. I know what it takes to get out.”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Your hands curled around your coffee cup, suddenly aware of the chipped ceramic, the cool air from the vents brushing your neck. A waitress refilled a glass of soda at another table. The world kept moving.
He stood slowly, gathering the folder and slipping it back into his coat.
“You don’t have to decide anything tonight,” he said. “But I’ll have someone drop off the new terms tomorrow. Look them over. Think about your kid.”
He turned to leave, then paused and glanced back at you one last time.
“And think about who you want to be when she looks back on this.”
And then he was gone.
Just like that.
⋆｡°✩
You didn’t expect it to come in an envelope.
White. Thick. No return address.
It was on your doorstep when you got home from picking Nora up from daycare — tucked under the welcome mat like some dead thing left by a cat. You stared at it for a full minute before bending to pick it up, heart low in your chest.
She tugged on your sleeve. “What’s that, Daddy?”
“Nothing, bug.” You smiled, but your voice didn’t rise with it. “Go on in. I’ll be right there.”
She slipped past you with a squeal, barreling into the apartment and tossing her little backpack onto the floor. You shut the door behind her, thumb tracing the edge of the envelope as you walked to the kitchen. The light through the window was already fading to that washed-out grey of too-late afternoons. You tore it open without ceremony.
Inside: four pages, paper thick enough to feel expensive. No header, no signature — but you recognised the same smooth, sparse formatting from the mans’s folder at Zia’s—the new terms.
You skimmed.
Then read slower.
Then stopped.
He was serious.
— Outstanding balance: reduced by 40%. — Interest: frozen, pending further review. — Monthly payments: deferred for 3 months. — Conditions:
That last part made your stomach twist.
1. You will be reachable at all times. 2. You will submit proof of employment weekly. 3. You will meet with Mr. Marino in person at a time and place of his choosing. Frequency: open. 4. You will not attempt to renegotiate through any party other than Mr. Marino himself. 5. You will not disappear.
Regards,
Felix Marino
That last line wasn’t underlined. But it didn’t need to be.
You sat down, the chair scraping across the tile.
It was clean. Too clean. He’d carved out the brutality and left behind something you could stomach — just enough rope to pull yourself up. Or hang yourself with.
In the distance, you heard Nora humming a song from her cartoons.
And you realised: you were already considering it.
⋆｡°✩
The house is quiet after Nora falls asleep, sprawled out in her tiny bed with her stuffed rabbit tucked under her chin. You'd cleaned the chocolate from her face, tucked her in, and kissed her forehead like always. Pretended like nothing was wrong. Like there wasn’t a folded letter in your coat pocket that felt like it weighed more than your whole damn life.
You sit at the kitchen table, hands steepled, staring down at it again.
Felix Marino’s terms are clear:
Six months of contracted work
Weekly check-ins at a private location downtown
No questions asked about the nature of the work.
No outside contact with “competing interests”
Nora is off-limits. Her name isn’t even mentioned.
That part almost makes it worse.
Because you don’t think Felix left her out of the contract out of kindness.
You think it’s because he sees her as yours. And what belongs to you, by extension, belongs to him now.
You grip the paper until the crease deepens. This is a deal with the devil, no matter how cleanly it’s written. Still, you’ve seen worse. You’ve lived worse. And if this means keeping Nora safe—keeping your home, your job, your sanity—then what choice do you really have?
You’ll meet his terms. But you won’t let him sink his claws in.
You won’t let him think he has you.
Your phone buzzes on the table. A message. Just a location, a time.
[ Tomorrow, 11 AM.
Wear something decent. ]
You stare at the screen for a while before flipping it over and standing up. You clean the counter. Rinse the mugs. Check the locks on the doors twice. It’s routine, but you do it slower tonight.
Just before bed, you peek in on Nora one more time.
Her tiny chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. There’s drool on her pillow. You swallow the knot in your throat.
You hope to god she never has to know how close you came to losing everything.
⋆｡°✩
The address Felix gave leads to a storefront with blackout windows and no signage. Inside, it's cleaner than expected. Sleek. Minimal. You’re greeted by a man in a tailored suit who doesn’t ask your name — just waves you through with a nod like you’re already known here.
You are, apparently.
A hallway. A door. A quiet room with a view of the city skyline. Felix is seated behind a polished desk, flipping lazily through a folder.
He doesn’t look up when he says, “You came.”
“Not like I had a choice.”
“Sure you did. You just didn’t like the alternatives.”
He gestures to the chair across from him. You sit, tense.
He finally lifts his gaze, eyes still unreadable. “How’s Nora?”
You narrow your eyes. “Fine. And she’s not part of this.”
“I never said she was.” He leans back, steepling his fingers. “Though you should know, this isn’t charity. You’ll work. I’ll watch. If I don’t like what I see, the terms change.”
“And if I don’t like what I see?”
“Then I’ll be disappointed,” Felix says, smooth as silk. “And trust me — you don’t want that.”
There’s a pause. You hate how calm he is. Like this is all part of some carefully laid plan. Maybe it is.
“You always recruit desperate dads into your service?”
“Only the interesting ones.”
You clench your jaw. “Why me?”
Felix shrugs, almost too casually. “Doesn’t matter.”
But it does matter. You can feel it.
The way he looks at you sometimes. Like he’s trying to find someone else in your face. Like you’re unfinished business.
You stand. “I’ll do what you asked. But keep the personal shit out of it.”
Felix watches you with that same unreadable gaze. “Whatever you say.”
But you can tell he’s already rewriting the rules.
⋆｡°✩
You’d expected something bloodier.
Maybe it was the envelope. Maybe it was Felix’s eyes, the way he looked at you like you were already halfway his. Or maybe it was just the way his name lingered like a shadow behind every line of those new “terms.” Whatever it was, you thought there’d be blood. Screaming. A pipe wrench. Something straight out of a bad movie.
Instead, you’re standing outside a warehouse that looks too clean to be dangerous, which somehow makes it worse.
You glance down at the slip of paper again. One name. One address. Gallo. That’s all he gave you. No instructions. No backup. Just the duffel bag in your hand and a phone in your pocket that vibrated exactly once with a location pin and then went dead silent.
You should walk away. You should. But you think of Nora. Think of the groceries on the table this morning — not from your wallet. Think of the sharp suits you saw at your building’s entrance yesterday. Men who didn’t belong there. Men who made eye contact just long enough to remind you that you were being watched.
So you step inside.
The warehouse isn’t abandoned, but it’s not busy either. The air smells like oil and dust, and the lights overhead buzz faintly with age. You follow the sound of metal scraping across concrete until you see him — mid-40s, thick arms, cigarette tucked into the side of his mouth like it’s permanent.
“You Gallo?” you ask.
He looks up, unimpressed. “Who’s asking?”
You don’t answer. Just unzip the duffel and pull out the envelope inside — thick, sealed, and marked with the same insignia that was embossed into Felix’s letterhead.
He snorts. “About time.”
You hand it over. He rips it open, eyes scanning quickly. You can’t see the paper, but whatever’s written on it makes his jaw twitch.
“I paid last week,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.
You don’t move. Felix never said what to do after delivering the message. But you know better than to leave right away.
Gallo crumples the paper. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters. Then louder, “Tell Marino if he wants more outta me, he can come collect it himself.”
You exhale slowly. “I don’t think that’s how this works.”
He steps forward, chest puffed. “No? Then how does it work, ragazzo di merda?”
There’s a tension now — heavy and tight, like the moment before thunder. You don’t flinch, even when he gets close enough for you to smell the smoke on his breath. But your fingers twitch.
This isn’t a test of violence. It’s a test of restraint.
And you’re not sure which you’re worse at.
He laughs like he’s already won. Then, just when the silence threatens to stretch too far, he spits — right at your shoes.
You move fast. Maybe too fast. You don’t pull the knife, don’t throw a punch, but your hands are around his throat in a blink, and you shove him back hard enough that he slams against a shelf with a clang. A box of screws topples somewhere behind him.
“Try it again,” you say, low and even. “See what happens.”
You don’t remember drawing the knife.
All you remember is the way the air changed — thick, metallic, sharp with panic. One moment, Gallo’s guys were just shouting, posturing like men with too much testosterone and not enough brains. The next one of them rushed you. Pulled a gun. A warning shot, maybe. But it grazed your arm, and that was all it took to tip something inside you.
The rest is a blur. Screaming. A crash. A warm spray across your face that wasn’t your own.
You’re not trained for this.
You’re not supposed to be the guy standing in a warehouse full of broken bones and gasping, bloodied men, clutching a blade that’s slippery in your hand. You were a barista three years ago. A father. A husband, once.
But right now, you’re just a wreck. Shaking, breath jagged, body slick with sweat and blood — most of it not yours. The knife hits the floor with a metallic clatter. Your legs feel like paper.
The phone in your pocket buzzes once.
A location pin.
No words.
Your hands are still trembling as you stumble out into the alley, back pressed to the cool brick wall as your knees threaten to buckle. You press your palm to the wound on your arm, but you can’t even tell if it’s deep. All you can feel is the adrenaline, burning like acid through your veins.
The car pulls up exactly two minutes later.
Sleek. Black. Expensive in the quiet, menacing kind of way.
The passenger door opens, and Felix is already waiting inside.
You hesitate. Just for a second.
Then you climb in, dragging the bloodied duffel with you. You don’t speak. You can’t.
He says nothing at first. Just watches. His gaze skims your face, your hands, the splotches on your shirt. His nostrils flare, faintly. His jaw clenches.
Then his voice comes, low and velvety.
“You did well.”
You flinch.
Well?
Is this what “well” looks like?
You open your mouth to say something — anything — but it all dies on your tongue. You feel like you're floating outside yourself, like your body isn’t quite yours. Like you're going to pass out.
Felix notices. Of course he does.
He leans in, slow and deliberate. His hand moves to your jaw— firm, and tilts your face toward him.
“You’re shaking.”
No shit. You laugh — a broken, awful sound that doesn’t feel real.
Felix hums, then shifts in his seat. The partition behind you slides up without a sound, cloaking the two of you in soft shadows.
“I told you I wanted to see what you could handle,” he murmurs. “You didn’t disappoint.”
“I almost died,” you manage to whisper.
“Mm,” he says, thumb brushing along your cheek. “But you didn’t.”
You don’t realise your hands are clenched in your lap until he notices. He undoes your seatbelt. Leans down.
“I can help,” he says softly, fingers already trailing down your thigh. “Let me.”
You’re still bloodstained. You still feel sick. But your cock betrays you — twitching in your jeans under his touch like it doesn’t care that you’re half-feral from adrenaline and trauma.
He smiles faintly. Like he expected that.
“Poor thing,” Felix says, voice thick with amusement and something deeper. “All wound up. All that fear. All that pressure.”
His hand slides over the bulge in your pants, slow and possessive. Your breath catches.
“You’re shaking so much,” he murmurs. “You need to calm down. Just relax.”
You don’t. Can’t. But your hips twitch anyway.
Felix is patient. Cruel in his gentleness. His fingers undo your jeans with practised ease, and the second he wraps his hand around your cock— warm, firm, steady— you nearly choke on a gasp. The pleasure spikes sharply and fast, edged with guilt and something darker.
You shouldn’t want this. Not now. Not here. Not after—
“Don’t think,” he says quietly. “Just feel.”
Your head hits the seat behind you. Your hands tremble uselessly in your lap as he strokes you—not fast, not slow, just right. His thumb circles the head on every upward pull, milking soft, breathless moans out of you.
“You’ve been good,” he whispers, voice like velvet steel. “Brave. I take care of what’s mine.”
You don’t know when that happened — when you became his. But it’s too late now. His hand keeps working you through it, coaxing you toward a high you didn’t ask for but can’t stop chasing. Heat pools low in your belly. Your eyes squeeze shut. You’re going to—
“Come for me,” he breathes, leaning in. “That’s it. Let go.”
And you do.
It rips out of you like a sob. Messy. Shuddering. You curl in on yourself as your body wracks with release, nerves flayed raw.
Felix doesn’t flinch at the mess. He just wipes his hand, then guides your head down to rest against his shoulder. You’re still panting, still dazed, blood drying on your clothes — and he strokes your hair like you’re something precious.
Like you're his favourite broken thing.
⋆｡°✩
You leave the bathroom light on.
Not because Nora’s scared of the dark anymore. She’s been sleeping through the night since she was three. It’s for you.
You’re the one who wakes up in cold sweats now. You’re the one who flinches at door hinges creaking and cars idling too long outside the window. You’re the one staring at the nursery monitor like something might crawl through it.
There’s no crying. Just the soft hum of static.
She’s curled up on her side, one arm flung above her head, mouth open in that completely unselfconscious way only kids manage. Her stuffed bear is trapped beneath her chest like a casualty, and you don’t dare move it. You don’t dare move anything.
You sit on the edge of your bed, clothes still crusted in spots with things you scrubbed off hours ago. You’re not sure how you’re still breathing. Or why you are.
Your hands shake. Not like before—this is quieter. Numb.
Your phone buzzes once on the nightstand. You don’t check it. You already know who it is.
You already know what he’ll say. Good work. I told you you could handle it. You’re not sure if that’s supposed to be a compliment or a warning.
The monitor hisses softly, then goes silent. You keep watching it anyway.
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