POV: Emilia Conti
I woke up to silence that wasn't natural.
Not the quiet of early morning, not the soft hush of a hospital corridor before rounds—but the kind of silence that had been engineered. Padded. Controlled. Designed to swallow sound before it could travel.
For a moment, I didn't remember where I was.
Then I tried to sit up.
The bed was unfamiliar beneath my hands—too wide, too firm, sheets tucked with military precision. The ceiling above me was smooth and unmarked, interrupted only by a recessed light that glowed softly, never fully dimming.
I turned my head.
A camera stared back at me from the corner.
I exhaled slowly, forcing my breathing to steady.
So it hadn't been a nightmare.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood. The floor was cool under my bare feet, grounding me. I needed that. I needed something real. Something I could feel.
The room was larger than the suite I'd slept in before. Cleaner. More stripped down. No unnecessary furniture. No personal touches. Just what was needed—and nothing more.
Containment, dressed up as comfort.
I crossed to the door and pressed my palm against it.
Locked.
Not the obvious kind. No handle that refused to turn. Just… unresponsive. Like it didn't recognize me as someone allowed to leave.
I rested my forehead briefly against the cool surface, eyes closing.
Think.
Panic would waste energy. Fear would narrow my vision. I'd survived worse things than this—long nights on call, surgical complications that went sideways, the months after my father died when everything familiar collapsed at once.
This was just another crisis.
One I hadn't chosen.
I turned away from the door and began taking inventory.
Bathroom—fully stocked. Toothbrush. Clean towels. Neutral toiletries with no sharp edges, no glass containers. Even the mirror was reinforced, seamless, impossible to break.
Bedroom—bed, nightstand, chair bolted subtly to the floor. No drawers I could remove. No cords long enough to be useful.
Closet—clothes. All my size. All carefully selected. Practical. Modest. Expensive.
Someone had planned this.
A soft chime sounded behind me.
I turned sharply.
The wall opposite the bed lit up, revealing a narrow panel I hadn't noticed before. A screen flickered to life.
Alessio's face appeared.
He looked composed. Awake. Already dressed.
"Good morning," he said.
I stared at the screen. "You moved me."
"Yes."
"You didn't ask."
"No."
I folded my arms tightly. "You locked me in."
"For now."
I laughed under my breath. "You keep saying that like it's temporary."
"It is," he replied calmly. "Just not on your timeline."
I stepped closer to the screen. "What happened last night?"
"We contained the breach."
"That's not what I meant."
His gaze sharpened. "You weren't harmed."
"That's not what I meant either."
A pause.
"The man you saw," he said, "won't be returning."
My stomach clenched. "You killed him."
"I solved the problem."
"And the others?"
"They were reminded of the consequences."
I closed my eyes briefly, then opened them again. "This is what staying alive looks like to you?"
"Yes."
"To me, it looks like imprisonment."
He studied me for a long moment through the screen. "Do you feel unsafe?"
"I feel trapped."
"That wasn't my question."
I hesitated.
"No," I admitted. "I don't feel unsafe."
"Then the system is working."
Anger flared hot and immediate. "You don't get to reduce my life to a system."
"I get to reduce the threat," he replied. "That's my responsibility."
"To whom?" I demanded.
"To everyone who depends on me."
"And me?" I asked quietly.
Another pause. Shorter this time.
"To you," he said. "Whether you like it or not."
The screen dimmed slightly as if reacting to his movement. "You'll have breakfast shortly. A doctor will check on you."
"I don't need a doctor."
"You fainted," he said. "Twice."
"Because I was abducted and dragged through a war zone," I snapped.
"And you survived," he replied evenly. "Which is the point."
I turned away, pacing. "You told me last night I couldn't leave."
"That's correct."
"You didn't say I'd be isolated."
"You're not isolated," he said. "You're secured."
I laughed sharply. "Semantics."
"Precision," he corrected.
I stopped pacing and looked directly at the screen. "How long?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
"On how quickly things stabilize."
"And if they don't?"
"They will."
"You sound confident."
"I don't survive by guessing."
I pressed my lips together. "My job."
"On hold."
"My phone."
"Restricted."
"My autonomy."
"Negotiable."
That made me look up sharply. "Excuse me?"
"You're not a prisoner," he said. "You're a variable."
"I'm a person."
"Yes," he agreed. "Which complicates things."
I stepped closer to the screen, close enough that I could see the faint scar near his collarbone, the slight tension at the edge of his jaw.
"You're doing this because you think you know what's best for me," I said.
"No," he replied. "I'm doing this because I know what will happen if I don't."
"And you don't trust me to make that choice myself."
"I don't trust the people watching you to respect it."
The words settled heavily between us.
A knock sounded—soft, controlled.
Alessio glanced off-screen. "Come in."
The door to my room unlocked with a quiet click.
A woman entered pushing a small cart. Breakfast. She didn't meet my eyes. Didn't speak.
She set the tray down and left without a word.
The door locked again.
I looked back at the screen. "This is my life now?"
"For the moment," he said.
"And what am I allowed to do?"
"You'll read. Walk. Think."
"Like a pet?"
"Like someone whose mind I need intact," he replied.
I clenched my jaw. "You don't get to own my mind."
"I'm not trying to," he said. "I'm trying to keep it alive."
Silence stretched.
I sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, exhaustion finally bleeding through the adrenaline.
"You said last night that once I knew everything, there was no going back," I said.
"That's true."
"And you still won't tell me everything."
"Not yet."
"Why?"
"Because the more you know," he said carefully, "the more dangerous you become."
I laughed quietly. "I'm already dangerous, apparently."
His gaze held mine. "Yes."
The admission landed heavier than I expected.
"I didn't ask for this," I said.
"I know."
"I didn't choose you."
"I know."
"Then stop acting like this is mutual."
"This," he replied softly, "isn't about choice anymore. It's about survival."
The screen went dark.
I stared at my reflection for a moment before it faded completely.
Then I looked down at the untouched food on the tray.
So this was it.
A luxury cage.
Protection wrapped around control.
And the terrifying certainty that this wasn't the worst it was going to get—just the beginning.
I picked up the fork.
If I was going to survive this, I needed strength.
And if I was going to endure his protection—
I would do it on my own terms.