Jasper sat motionless, legs pulled in, the truth about his father strewn around him like shrapnel. The photograph was still in his hand, creased and nearly torn from being held too long and too tightly. He hadn’t moved since his captor entered, the weight of it all anchoring him in place.

The man stayed where he was, leaning just slightly against the rough concrete wall, his gaze locked on Jasper’s trembling form.

He looked up. His eyes were rimmed red. “Why?” Jasper finally spat the word like venom. His hands shook as he balled his fingers tighter into his fists, nails digging into skin that was already raw. “Why show me all this?”

The man didn’t respond right away. He just stared. Stared at the broken pieces he had become.

He stepped forward, the sound of his boots a deliberate echo in the silence. “To see.”

Jasper’s eyes narrowed, fire flickering through the hurt, and suddenly he pushed off the cot, standing with defiant fury. He closed the distance between them, voice low and harsh, quivering with every word. “See what? That my father is a murderer? That my whole life is a lie?”

Jasper’s body tensed, like he was ready to snap, to lash out. And maybe he would. Maybe that was the only way to keep from crumbling.

“Yes.” His captor stepped closer, his towering figure was just close enough to make Jasper tense, but not recoil. “And, because you’re useful.”

Jasper could feel the heat rising to his ears. 

“Useful for what?” he asked, barely above a whisper. “I don’t know anything.”

The man’s voice came slow, almost indifferent. “I don’t need your knowledge. I need your presence. Your proximity. They trust you. You still have the name. The clearance. The social ties,” he continued. “When Sinclair looks at you, he still sees his son. His heir.”

Jasper’s jaw clenched. He looked away, then back, anger surging again. “So that’s it? You want me to play bait? Sit in on Sunday brunch with the man who tortures civilians in offshore bunkers?” He laughed bitterly. “Smile for the camera while you plot his assassination?”

The man’s mouth twisted into a wicked smile. “This isn’t about one man. Vincent Sinclair is just a name on a longer list.”

Jasper moved like he was going to punch him, but froze halfway, fist shaking, teeth clenched, and then backed off, his chest heaving. “Why me?” he rasped. “Why not leak the files? Let someone else deal with it?”

“Because people like your father don’t go down with leaks. They pivot. They deny. They bury. There’s no press release that brings down men like that." The man's lip twitched. "But trust? Family? That’s harder to fake. Harder to defend against.” He spoke like he was tired of hearing himself say it.

Jasper’s voice was quiet, his blue eyes laced with anger. “You think you’re some kind of hero?”

“No.” His tone was dry. “Heroes don’t survive long in my world.”

The scent of leather and cigarettes filled Jasper's senses as the man leaned in, his eyes gleaming like polished amethyst. 

“But monsters?” he whispered. “Monsters change things. Because we stop asking for permission.” His expression was unreadable, save for the slight curve of his lips. Calm, almost amused, yet charged with a quiet intensity.

It sent a visible shiver down his spine. 

Jasper swallowed hard. His voice was tight when he spoke. “What makes you think I’ll ever help you?”

The man walked past him and began collecting the contents of the folder. “Because eventually, you’ll see things the way I do.”

Jasper opened his mouth to argue, but then he noticed it.

The door was open.

His breath caught in his throat. For a long, dizzying moment, he didn’t move. He stared at the faint sliver of light bleeding through the narrow crack of the door, then back at the man.

Was it a trap? It had to be. But what if it wasn’t? What if the man had been distracted, or simply overconfident?

That didn’t matter anymore. Consequence or not, he had to get out. 

Jasper moved quickly. His bare feet padded across the cold floor. Each step was a war between terror and instinct, between survival and submission. He reached the door, pulling it open.

Run.

The word flared in his brain like a spark catching dry grass. His body moved before his mind caught up. Barefoot, breathless, heart hammering against his ribs with every step. The slap of his feet echoed through the hallway as panic clawed up his spine. He didn’t know the layout, didn’t care. He didn’t look back. His vision tunneled. Left, then right, he chose a direction on instinct alone and tore down the hallway like something hunted.

He ran past empty rooms. Past silent doors. His lungs burned, eyes wild as the maze unfolded around him, cruel and unfamiliar.

He hit a corner, hard, skidding against the dusty concrete. A stack of crates blocked a door he thought might lead outside. A dead end.

His lungs were on fire, every inhale ragged. Anxiety rose up like bile, but he didn’t stop.

He sprinted quicker now, cutting corners blindly, every shadow a threat. He didn’t know where he was. The ceilings were high, held up by rusted beams. The walls all looked the same. Smooth concrete, no windows, no signs. Just endless passageways and the faint buzz of overhead lights.

Behind him, he could hear footsteps growing louder.

They were unhurried. Stalking him. Like they had all the time in the world.

Jasper’s panic only grew.

He veered right and found a door at the end of the hall, a heavy steel one. A hint of air brushed against his face, cooler than the hallways behind. Outside? He tried pushing through it. Locked.

Jasper cursed under his breath and spun around, ready to bolt again, but the man was already there, leaning against a pillar like he’d been waiting for him.

“You’re faster than I expected,” he said calmly. “Not smart enough to know where you’re going, but fast.”

Jasper backed up, out of breath, spine pressing against the cold door behind him. His limbs shaking from exhaustion.

“Don’t come near me!” he snapped, voice rough from the sprint.

His captor didn’t move forward. He just stared. 

Jasper wanted to scream. Instead, he shoved past him with all the force he had, elbows and shoulders and sheer adrenaline.

He attempted to run again, but the man was faster.

A blur behind him, then a hand closed around his stomach and yanked him back hard. Jasper crashed into the man’s form, his back pressing into him. His captor steadied them both, his grip tight around Jasper’s waist.

“That’s enough,” he said, voice low.

Jasper thrashed. “Let go of me!”

“Enough,” he repeated, and this time there was ice behind it. The kind that froze the air, that made every instinct in Jasper’s body scream danger.

His breath came in ragged gasps, his fight slowly bleeding into trembles.

The man leaned in, his lips close to Jasper’s ear.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Jasper,” he murmured. “So stop running and breathe.”

He released him.

Jasper crumpled to the floor, heart still racing, every nerve raw.

He stayed where he’d fallen, one knee bent awkwardly beneath him, palm pressed to the cold floor. His chest tightened with every pulse, but his voice came out steady when he finally spoke. “You knew the door wasn’t shut.”

“I did.” The man circled around to face him. “You needed to get it out of your system,” he said simply.

Jasper flinched at the tone, like he was filing him neatly into a box labeled predictable. Like his rebellion had been expected. Jasper’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You left it open just to watch me run around like a test rat.”

The man kneeled down, arm resting on one knee. His long, raven strands gently falling over his shoulder. “I think you knew that trying to escape barefoot in unfamiliar territory wouldn’t end well. Yet here we are.”

Silence stretched between them. The hallway around them felt colder now.

Jasper finally looked the man in the eyes. “So what happens now? You keep me locked up? Hope I magically start doing what you want?”

“No,” the man corrected him. “You have a choice.”

Jasper’s hands clenched into fists, trembling with the force of his emotions. “Choice?” His voice was raw. “I’m a prisoner.”

The man’s gaze darkened. “You’re free to leave. But if you go back to your father now, not knowing what you’re walking into, you’ll regret ever leaving.” He rose to his feet. “However, if you stay, you’ll need to be willing to burn your name to the ground.”

He studied him for a long moment. “Your father made you a pawn, Jasper. I’m giving you a chance to become a player.” 

The words hit hard.

He didn’t say it with cruelty. Not as a threat. But like a fact of nature, like gravity or war.

Jasper didn’t answer right away. He just sat there, the adrenaline slowly burning off, leaving nothing but weight in its place.

He didn’t know what to believe. He didn’t trust this man and he was angry. Angry that he brought him here. Angry at what he was forced to realize. But he knew one thing for sure, whatever was waiting for him back home, it wasn’t the life he thought he had.

The man held out his hand with quiet authority, as if knowing Jasper would grab it. 

And he did.

He grasped it with more force than he meant to, hauling himself up onto unsteady legs, using the man’s strength only long enough to find his own. He wasn’t standing tall, but he was standing. 

“I don’t trust you,” he said through clenched teeth, his eyes hard. “I might even hate you for what you’ve done, but I’m not going back.” He dropped the man’s hand like it was poison. “And since I’m not your prisoner, I’m not living in that dungeon you’ve been keeping me in.” The defiance in his voice cut sharp, born of betrayal, and something far more dangerous, conviction. 

The man’s smirk was slow, calculating.

“That,” he said, voice like silk concealing a blade, “depends entirely on how difficult you decide to be.”