"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."
