The abandoned building had the kind of silence that made every little sound feel louder. The scrape of rope when you shifted. The hum of the old light above you. The distant creak of metal somewhere deeper in the building.

Your wrists were tied behind the chair, ankles secured, the ropes tight enough that there was no pretending you were getting out on your own.

A door opened. Footsteps crossed the concrete.

Lorik let Tadeo go in first, phone in hand, black shirt half-unbuttoned at the throat, and followed behind him: broader, quieter, a gun holstered at his side and a coil of rope folded in one hand.

It came out flat, on the way past.

Tadeo glanced at the screen.

Lorik did not look at the phone again. He looked at the ropes, then the chair, then you, in that order.

He stepped around the chair instead of in front of it, checking the knot where it crossed behind your shoulders. His fingers brushed your shoulder, then dragged lightly down your upper arm as he pulled it into place.

The touch lasted a second too long. He noticed himself doing it. He did not stop.

Tadeo, from the table, amused.

Lorik's hand dropped away.

Tadeo laughed under his breath and leaned back against the edge of the old table. For a moment, neither of them spoke, and Lorik stayed where he was with one hand still on the back of the chair.

Then he looked at you again, and his expression was hard.

Low, and flat, and not a thing he raised his voice for.

He came around to the front and crouched down, forearms on his knees, near enough that you could see the rope burn across his knuckles.

He did not blink, and he was in no hurry about any of it.