Part 123
The world outside was roaring again.
Screens glowed with Adrian's face, interviews replayed, hashtags surged like wildfire.
But here, inside her quiet little house, the air was still — too still.
Aura sat at the small wooden table, her hands folded neatly around a cup of untouched tea. The steam had long faded. She watched the reflection of herself in the dark liquid — calm, precise, and steady, just as she needed to be.
"He's not ready," she whispered, a small tremor in her voice that she quickly smothered. "They'll tear him apart again if I let him go now."
The television flickered faintly in the background — another panel of commentators speculating about his disappearance. Their voices bled together like static.
Aura turned the volume down, her lips tightening.
"They don't care about him," she said softly, almost tenderly. "They only care about what he gives them. The songs, the smile, the mask."
Her eyes drifted toward the closed bedroom door. Beyond it, she could hear faint movement — the slow rhythm of him pacing, perhaps, or just shifting in bed. That sound alone was enough to ease something inside her chest.
She opened her notebook, flipping past old pages of careful plans and notes. Each line detailed his schedule, his favorite meals, the things that made him laugh. But the last few pages were new — lists of locks, of cameras, of routes. All meant to keep him safe.
"If I control the world around him, I can protect him from it," she wrote.
And she believed it. Completely.
That night, she moved quietly through the house, checking each window, testing each latch. She set a new sensor by the back door, adjusted the curtains to block out the faint streetlight that slipped in through the cracks. Every motion was deliberate, ritualistic — like a prayer.
When she returned to the room, she paused in the doorway. Adrian was lying on the bed, eyes closed, his breathing deep. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine that he'd forgiven her. That he finally understood why she had to keep him here — why the outside world wasn't meant for him anymore.
She reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead.
"I'm doing this for you," she whispered. "Just until it's safe again. Then… then you'll see."
And as she sat down beside him, the faint hum of the locked house seemed to soothe her.
In her mind, she wasn't imprisoning him — she was saving him.
From fame.
From chaos.
From himself.