Soren felt sick. Not because of the injuries, but because of the way Riven sounded. Like he was pleading—pleading to be believed, pleading to prove he was still useful, still clean, still soone worth keeping.
"I swear, he didn’t do anything," Riven said again, his voice shaky, desperate. "I—he just... Locked up. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t tell him anything about you."
But Nicholas clearly did more than just lock him up. The side of Riven’s head was bleeding, he looked pale from the blood loss. He looked like he was on the verge of death.
It wasn’t just about Nicholas. Riven was trying to prove himself to him. Begging for Soren not to cast him aside like trash. Afraid he would be abandoned now that he was damaged.
I still have value... Please, don’t throw away.
Soren stepped closer in the vision, but his past self just stood there. Unmoved. No words of comfort, no warmth. Nothing.
Soren wanted to scream. He wanted to shake his past self and do sothing. Hug Riven. Tell him he mattered.
The Soren in the vision stood still for a beat, staring down at Riven with the cold, unfeeling gaze of a man who weighed everything in terms of value and risk. His eyes didn’t soften, not even a little, as he studied the bruised and trembling figure in front of him. The silence was heavy—oppressive, almost. Riven, on the other hand, was falling apart.
His wrists, still bound by the ropes Nicholas had tied, trembled as he struggled to stay upright. He could feel himself shaking—not from the cold, but from sothing else. Whatever Nicholas had given him, it was eating away at his control. His heart pounded painfully in his chest, like it was going to burst.
"Don’t—don’t co closer..." Riven’s voice cracked as he tried to scoot away, his back scraping against the rotting floorboards of the abandoned house. His limbs felt too heavy, yet they moved without aning. There was sothing inside him—foreign, unfamiliar—like his thoughts weren’t his own. "I don’t feel right... I don’t—" He gasped and he wished he could clutch at his chest, his face contorting with panic. But his hands were tied.
"I don’t want to hurt anyone," he said, voice fragile, like wet paper. "Please, I’m not in control right now..."
But Soren didn’t stop.
His footsteps echoed slowly across the creaking floor as he closed the distance. His expression didn’t change—still that sa hard, blank stare. He was analysing him, Riven could feel it. Trying to figure out what kind of drug it was, how much ti he had left before Riven completely lost himself. There wasn’t a hint of concern in his eyes. Not yet. Not even when Riven began to cry.
Tears welled up in Riven’s green eyes, spilling down his dirt-sared cheeks. He bit down on his lip to keep it from trembling too visibly, but the effort was wasted. His entire body was betraying him. The way his fingers twitched, how he tried to curl in on himself like a wounded animal, the barely audible sobs slipping out between his broken words.
"I tried to fight him... I did," he whispered. "I didn’t tell him anything. I swear... I didn’t let him touch . I didn’t—"
It sounded like he was begging for forgiveness for sothing he didn’t even do. Like he expected Soren to walk away, to leave him there like garbage. His head hung low, face hidden by his ssy hair, but the sha in his voice was deafening.
Soren’s cold voice cut through the air again. "You’re shaking." He crouched down in front of him, not to comfort, but to observe more closely.
Riven flinched.
"Don’t touch ... Please... I don’t want to hurt you..."
Riven didn’t know how long he had been lying there, slumped against the wall like a broken doll, his limbs trembling, soaked in sweat, his mind slipping further from him by the second. He couldn’t stop shaking. Every breath was a shallow gasp, every sound a distorted echo. His body no longer obeyed him. Sothing monstrous crawled beneath his skin, tightening its grip.
And through the haze of pain and terror, the only thing clear in his vision was him.
Soren.
Standing tall. Still. Immaculate in posture, as though the air in this decaying room didn’t dare touch him. Riven could barely lift his head, but he could feel the judgnt radiating off the man like heat.
The Soren in front of him wasn’t the one who, no, he was not the one who he thought he was. The image of Soren built up in his head was nothing but lies. Soren never cared for him, he never did...
No. This Soren looked at him like a tarnished blade—useless, waste, and dull. Cold calculation flickered in his black eyes, not affection, not even anger.
Disappointnt.
"Don’t... Don’t co closer," Riven pleaded, his voice hoarse, broken, his body jerking with each shallow breath. "I’m not right—I can’t—I don’t want to—"
His words lted into incoherent sobs. He tried to curl into himself, hide his face in between his trembling knees, but even that small movent cost him everything.
Soren took another step forward. His boots clicked softly against the ruined wooden floor, asured and precise. He crouched in front of Riven, expression unreadable.
He observed.
That’s what it was—observation, not concern.
"Bloodshot eyes," he said quietly, as if diagnosing an animal. "Tremors. Loss of control. Dilated pupils... I see."
But was it bloodshot because of the drug, or was it bloodshot because Riven was tortured at Nicholas’s hands, was it because his inconsolable sobs that filled the eerie room.
Riven’s lips trembled as he tried to respond, but all that ca out was a pitiful whimper. He didn’t understand what was happening to him, only that it felt like a war was erupting inside his skull.
"I... I think he drugged ," Riven choked out. "Nicholas. At the end. He slipped sothing—I didn’t—I didn’t..."
"Hmm."
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