"Come to daddy, Florian."

The voice seeped into the darkness like poison.

A faint light spilled across the cold stone floor as the heavy door creaked open, and a familiar silhouette stepped inside.

Ten-year-old Florian looked up—small, trembling, eyes swollen from crying.

He didn't know how long he'd been locked in this room.

Hours? A day? Longer?

Time didn't exist here.

Only the cold.

Only the ache.

Only the silence.

And him.

But Florian knew what he had to do.

The same thing he always had to do after being punished.

The ritual his father expected.

Florian sniffled, swiping at his tears with shaky hands. His body felt too heavy, too hollow, but his father was waiting—watching.

'I don't want to…'

God, he didn't want to.

But he forced his legs to move, step by trembling step, until he was standing before him. Asher's face was lit by the lantern in his hand—softly smiling, almost gentle.

As if he hadn't just thrown his son into a dark freezing room for "misbehaving."

Florian looked up at him.

His father looked down.

Silent.

Expectant.

Florian drew a breath that hurt, then slowly lifted his arms and wrapped them around his father's waist in that empty, rehearsed embrace.

He felt nothing.

Well, he felt gratitude.

He had been trained to feel nothing but gratitude.

But his father—Asher Obsidian—wrapped his arms around Florian's small body with practiced ease.

And like always, one hand slid into Florian's hair.

Florian shut his eyes tight.

He braced—

And the pain struck instantly.

His father yanked his hair from the roots, pulling so hard Florian's back arched and the air was knocked from his lungs.

He couldn't breathe.

He couldn't even scream at first.

"I've been teaching you all your life," Asher murmured, voice low and cold against his ear, "and yet you still make mistakes like this? Dearest, stop disappointing me so I can stop punishing you. Do you think I like this?"

Florian whimpered, head throbbing, vision blurring. "N-No…"

"Indeed, I don't."

Another sharp tug, brutal and deep.

"You're the one forcing me to do these things. So stop making me the bad guy. Understand?"

Florian gasped, but no words came out—only pain, only fear.

Silence.

And that silence made Asher's patience snap.

He jerked Florian's hair harder, ripping another cry from the boy's throat.

"A-Ah! F-Father, please—I—I—"

"I asked," Asher hissed, "DO YOU understand, Florian?"

"Y-Yes! Yes, I understand!" Florian sobbed, the words ripping out of him in pure desperation. "I understand, Father!"

Only then—only then—did Asher loosen his grip.

But the relief never came.

Because the pain didn't leave with his father's hand.

The pain stayed.

The fear stayed.

It always stayed.

Asher exhaled softly, almost fondly, and stroked Florian's hair with the same hand that had just been used to hurt him. His touch now was gentle—tender even.

And that made it worse.

"I only hurt you because I love you," Asher whispered, voice low and serene, as if explaining something beautiful. "Remember that, dearest. I train you because you will be someone's obedient husband someday."

Florian's breath hitched.

Those words—he had heard them all his life.

They no longer shocked him.

They carved into him, shaped him, rewired him.

He swallowed the sob caught in his throat and forced his voice steady, soft, obedient.

"Thank you, daddy," Florian whispered, gratitude coating every syllable.

Real gratitude.

It was conditioned, but real.

If he thanked him, he'll stop hurting Florian.

If he thanked him, he'll hug Florian.

If Florian was a good boy, his father will be nicer.

So yes—he was grateful.

He was terrified, but he was grateful.

Because this was the only time Asher ever held him gently.

After the punishments.

After the pain.

This was the only time his father embraced him at all.

And little Florian clung to that small, broken mercy—

'Bullshit.'

Florian's first coherent thought slammed through him the instant the memory snapped away.

His breath hitched.

His vision swam.

That wasn't just a memory.

It was the kind of memory that dug claws into the mind, the kind that didn't fade but stung—because it wasn't his.

It was the original Florian's.

Triggered by Asher standing before him now in the exact same pose he used when the original was ten years old—arms wide open, smile twisted instead of warm, voice dripping with false affection.

A grotesque mirror.

A perfect overlap.

Florian already knew—already knew—the original Florian's relationship with Asher was horrific.

But seeing it.

Feeling it.

Hearing that voice whisper "Come to daddy"—

It rewired something inside him.

It made everything clearer and uglier.

No wonder the original Florian had clung to Heinz despite the pain.

No wonder he idolized crumbs of affection.

No wonder he kept chasing and forgiving, and accepting even the barest scraps.

Because all he ever knew was pain.

All he ever learned was loneliness.

All he was taught was obedience and desperation masquerading as love.

He spent his whole life begging to be held without being hurt.

And he never got that.

Not even at the end.

A hot rush flooded Florian's chest—anger, rage, sympathy so sharp it nearly made him nauseous.

'You poor thing.'

The original Florian was doomed from the start.

'Don't worry, Florian.' he thought, fists tightening until his knuckles burned. 'I won't let you suffer anymore. Not him. Not anyone. Not again.'

He inhaled slowly, forcing down the trembling in his hands, and raised his gaze.

His expression froze into ice.

Cold and controlled.

He took one step forward, then another, closing the distance between them like someone stepping toward a predator they were no longer afraid of.

"What are you doing here?" Florian asked, voice smooth and sharp as a blade. "You're not supposed to be here."

His stare didn't waver.

But Asher's did.

"Pardon?" Asher's eyes widen, his arms slowly went down, but not fully. "Florian, I'm giving you another chance to fix that tone."

Now, this made Florian snicker.

"Fix my tone? Need I remind you..." Florian narrows his eyes, standing in front of Asher, who seemed very offended. "...we're not in Floramatria."

Asher's face twitched.

Florian knew he was mad.

But oh, Florian wasn't going to stop there.

He was going to put Asher in his place once and for all.

"What are you doing here?" Florian asked, voice smooth and sharp as a blade. "You're not supposed to be here."

His stare didn't waver.

But Asher's did.

For the first time since Florian met him, Asher actually flinched.

"Pardon?" Asher's eyes widened, his arms lowering—slowly, reluctantly—like he wasn't sure whether to embrace him or strike him. "Florian, I'm giving you another chance to fix that tone."

Ah.

There it was.

That familiar authority the original Florian had been conditioned to bow to.

The same tone that made a ten-year-old boy shake and whisper "Yes, Father, I understand." 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝘦𝓌𝑒𝑏𝑛𝑜𝘷𝑒𝘭.𝒸𝘰𝑚

Florian snorted—quiet, cold, and humorless.

"Fix my tone?" he echoed, stepping closer until the warm shadows of the hallway cut across both their faces. "Need I remind you…"

He tilted his chin up, eyes narrowing into something sharp and lethal.

"…we're not in Floramatria."

Asher's face twitched.

A crack.

A crack in that polished, controlled façade—small, but enough.

He was offended.

Offended that Florian hadn't bowed or hugged him.

Offended that Florian hadn't trembled.

Offended that Florian didn't play the obedient puppet he raised.

And oh, Florian saw it.

He saw every insult Asher swallowed.

He saw the moment Asher realized this wasn't the same boy he trained to be terrified of him.

And Florian's heart hardened even more.

Because Florian wasn't going to stop here.

He was done letting men with power dictate his expression, his fear, his tone.

He was going to put Asher in his place.