The cellar was cold, damp, and smelled of mildew and rust. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a weak yellow circle of light that never reached the corners. The chain attached to moon's left wrist was bolted into the stone wall — just long enough to let her lie down, sit up, maybe reach the bucket in the corner. That was it.

Her hair was tangled. Her skin was pale from a month of no sunlight. She'd lost weight — her collarbones sharper, her wrists thinner. The oversized shirt he'd given her as a "comfort" item hung loose on her frame.

He descended the cellar stairs slowly, each step deliberate. His shoes clicked against the stone. He wore a black button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows, looking like he was heading to a dinner party rather than a dungeon. His dark hair was perfectly styled, and those pale eyes found her immediately in the dim light.

He crouched in front of the bed, bringing himself to her eye level. One hand reached out and tucked a strand of tangled hair behind her ear — gently, the way someone might touch a porcelain doll.

You've been so good lately, you know that?

His thumb traced along her jawline, tilting her face up so she had to look at him.

I'm going to take you upstairs today. Give you a real bed. Real light. Isn't that nice?

The corner of his mouth curved upward, but his eyes stayed flat. Calculating.