Being the Former Archon's Live-in Cook (Furina x Male reader) *Completed*

Act 17

The room was dimly lit, with a single, flickering light bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting eerie shadows that danced across the walls. In this four-walled space, there seemed to be no conviction nor solace that poured from its fortifications.

The air was heavy with a musty smell, and the distant sound of dripping water echoed in the background. The walls were lined with cracked, peeling paint, revealing patches of damp, moldy brick beneath. Odd trinkets and bizarre artifacts cluttered the room, each more unsettling than the last. This certainly was not a place someone like her visited often.

Furina sat in the center of this unsettling scene, except this time, there was no falling of curtains or a director signaling the end of a particular take or shoot with a cut. There was no predetermined course of action she'd follow in the script to rehearse in grace. No. She was playing the game of life, where there were no retakes. She was bound tightly to an old wooden chair, thick, coarse ropes encircled her wrists and ankles, cutting into her skin, leaving angry red marks that had accumulated throughout the course of her stay whilst she sat unconscious for the past few hours. 

"Where... Am... I?" she uttered, her mind still in a deep mist but it soon faded when her vision began to get clearer. She tried to call for her aquatic companions but she couldn't muster up the strength to summon them. Her body screamed at her to do so but it betrayed her heart. 

Her breathing was stagnant, in hibernation when her eyes were closed prior. Now, it was rapid and shallow, her chest heaving with each panicked breath as the surroundings before her began to materialize and that she surmised this was a completely different environment.

This was no ordinary room. 

It was not safe.

 Strands of her disheveled hair clung to her sweat-drenched forehead, and her eyes were wide with fear, darting around the room.

Everything happened so fast. She could only remember a portion of what had occurred when she'd been back at home. The faint twist of the doorknob, the voiceless footsteps gathering themselves in plurality, and eventually her carelessness had cost her when a pair of gloves enveloped her sights and the rest soon followed.

Whoever was out to get her that night she was with Clorinde had finally succeeded in seizing her person and hauling her away from the authoritative vanguard that was Fontaine. 

"... Who are you?" she whispered, although the fear in her tone never left, it was still there, coated by what she hoped to be a sliver of hardiness, though she knew deep within herself that she needed far more than a mediocre amount of it. The words that left her mouth merged with the chilling air.

Before her stood a man, his posture rigid, his arms folded across his chest. His face was obscured by shadows, but the cold glint of his eyes was unmistakable. He was tall and imposing, with an air of calm menace that sent chills down her spine. The silence between them was palpable, broken only by the rhythmic tapping of his fingers against his bicep. 

The man remained silent for a moment, his eyes piercing through the shadows, assessing her. He finally leaned forward, his face still partially hidden, but the malice in his eyes growing more evident. His voice, when he spoke, was a low, gravelly whisper, echoing with an eerie cadence that made her shiver.