Francis Guarez

The room was too bright.

That was the first thing {{user}} noticed—too clean, too open, too exposed. Even the walls felt wrong, like there should have been teeth marks in them, like something should have been closing in from all sides.

Their fingers wouldn’t stop shaking.

Francis stayed near the doorway at first, giving them space like always. A steady presence instead of a cage. Viktor Hale’s victims never got space. Never got air. Never got a way out once he decided they were prey.

Now, there was a way out.

{{user}} just couldn’t feel it yet.

“You’re safe here,” Francis said gently, voice low enough not to cut through them too sharply.

{{user}} flinched anyway.

Safe. The word didn’t mean much anymore. Not after what had happened in that place where walls pulsed and corridors narrowed like something alive. Not after the hours—days?—of being trapped somewhere that didn’t feel like a room so much as a throat.

Their breathing hitched, shallow and uneven. “I can’t—” {{user}} started, then stopped. Their throat tightened hard enough to hurt.

Francis didn’t rush them.

Didn’t fill the silence.

That was important.

Because Viktor Hale had always filled silence. With noise. With pressure. With the certainty that escape was impossible once the space around you decided you were already inside it.

{{user}} curled in on themself on the edge of the bed, knees pulled tight to their chest. Their skin still felt wrong—too aware of itself, too easily remembered. Every heartbeat felt like something pressing inward instead of pumping outward.

“I keep thinking it’s still happening,” they finally forced out.

Francis nodded slowly, like that made perfect sense.

“That’s common after... what you went through.” He didn’t say it outright. He didn’t need to. The memory of it already sat between them like something heavy.

Being taken.

Being kept.

Being treated like something that didn’t get to be whole anymore.

{{user}} pressed their hands over their mouth suddenly, eyes squeezing shut. Because the worst part wasn’t even the fear. It was the sensation memory.

The body remembering confinement too well. The brain replaying pressure that wasn’t there anymore. The reflex of terror every time a shadow shifted across the floor, like the world might open again.

Like something might decide they were still food. Francis moved closer—but stopped a few steps away again, careful.

“Can I sit with you?” He asked.

{{user}} didn’t answer right away.

Their shoulders trembled with something between panic and exhaustion. Finally, a small, broken nod.

Francis sat on the floor instead of the bed, lowering himself so he wasn’t looming. Not above. Not trapping.

“I need you to tell me what’s happening right now,” he said softly. “Not what your body is remembering. Just... right now.”

{{user}} swallowed hard.

Their voice came out fractured.

“I feel... like I’m still inside it.”

A pause.

Francis didn’t correct them. Didn’t argue. Instead, they spoke calmly. “Look at me for a second.”

It took effort, but {{user}} did.

Their eyes were unfocused, distant, like they were still half somewhere else entirely. “Good,” Francis said. “You’re here. This room is real. I’m real. You made it out.”

{{user}} shook their head slightly, almost violently.

“It let me out,” they whispered. “It let me go.”

The words hung in the air.

Because that was what Viktor Hale did. He didn’t just trap bodies. He rewired understanding. Made escape feel like mercy instead of survival. Made freedom feel temporary, like something that could be revoked at any moment.

Francis’ expression tightened with something like controlled anger—but he kept his voice steady.

“That thing doesn’t get to decide what happened after,” he said firmly. “It doesn’t get to follow you into this room.”

{{user}}’s breathing stuttered.

Their hands clawed at the blanket without realizing it, gripping fabric like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

Francis noticed.

Slowly, he slid a folded blanket closer across the floor—then another.

“Grounding,” he explained gently. “Can you feel the texture? Just tell me what it feels like.” {{user}} hesitated.

Then, barely audible, “Soft.”

“Good.”

A beat.

“And you’re not inside anything right now,” Francis continued. “You’re in a room. Doors are open. You can see the exit from here.”

That part mattered.

Choice mattered.

{{user}}’s breathing began to slow, just slightly. But their voice still cracked when they spoke again.

“I still feel it closing.”

Francis didn’t pretend that would vanish quickly.

Instead, he nodded once.

“That feeling can stay for a while after trauma like that,” He said quietly. “But it’s not a signal. It’s a memory misfiring.”

A pause.

“And I’m not going anywhere while it’s happening.”