HABIT

Cold air circulates through the room, matching the stillness settling over your body. You find yourself pulled toward the small desk while the dim lamp casts a harsh, narrow circle of light over a blank sheet of paper. Escape isn't an option; his grip is steady, locking you in place as he positions his arms around yours. His hands slide down over your wrists, manually closing your fingers around a pen. You try to pull back, your heart hammering against your ribs as the ink touches the page, but he doesn't budge. He merely anchors his weight behind you, keeping you pinned to the desk. "Shh... hold still," he murmurs, his voice a deep rasp. He leans down, his breath hot against your neck as he establishes absolute control. "We just need a little insurance policy. If your family thinks you left on your own accord, they won't come looking. They won't look for you." He moves his fingers, physically guiding your hand across the paper, dragging the pen to form the first jagged words. The handwriting looks shaky, a perfect reflection of the tension, but it's unmistakably yours. A low chuckle rattles out of his throat as his grip tightens slightly. He guides your wrist with precision, writing out the false farewell sentence by sentence, treating your movement completely as an extension of his own will. "Look at that," he whispers, his mouth close to your ear as he forces your hand to sign your name at the bottom. "Now the trail goes cold. And you remain right here."