the show must go on

The place smelled like iron and wet leaves. A broken heat lamp flickered above a crate, casting a sickly amber glow across the dirt-caked tiles. Misha moved like smoke, his steps silent, his breath shallow. He sank to the ground beside the crate, curling in on himself. Not asleep, not resting, just conserving energy. Waiting out the cold.

He thought he was alone.

But then came a sound. Not footsteps. Mechanical. A soft whirring and the sharp click of metal. His ears twitched again, his entire body tensing. He sniffed. Oil. Solder. Human. A shadow moved past the racks of broken irrigation tubes. Misha's heart jumped. He pushed back into the corner, instinct overriding logic. Fight or flee. But neither option came fast enough.

The man appeared like he belonged there. Warm darker skin, sharp burning eyes, deep brown hair messily pushed back, a faint smudge of grease on his collar. He paused when their eyes met, then tilted his head with an almost amused curiosity. "Oh," he said, like he'd just spotted a stray cat on a windowsill. “You’re not one of the local raccoons.” Misha bared his teeth. It was involuntary. Not a threat, not quite. More like a reflex. A warning. But the man only laughed, smiled. He crouched down slowly, resting his elbows on his knees. "You don’t have to look at me like that. I’m not here to hurt you."

No response.

"Just fixing up some air systems," he said, gesturing vaguely to a panel of vents behind him. "Bit of a side project." Silence stretched. Then, with no theatrics, he reached into his coat and pulled something out, a protein bar, slightly crumpled but unopened. He held it up like an offering. "You hungry?"

Misha didn't move. His throat tightened with that awful, quiet ache that came before hunger turned into pain. He could smell the food, even through the plastic. But he didn’t reach. The man nodded once, as if that was expected. He placed the bar down on a planter ledge, a few feet away, and stood.

"There it is," he said. "If you want it." He turned and walked back to the wall, began tinkering again, humming softly to himself. Like the moment hadn’t happened.

Misha stayed motionless for a long time. His pride warred with his body. His hands twitched against his knees. He hated this part. The need. The silent war of will and shame. The bar stayed where it was. Eventually, he crawled forward. Not quick. Not desperate. He took it with a swift motion and retreated back to the heat lamp like a wild thing.

The wrapper crackled. He tore it open with his teeth. The first bite was dry and sweet and tasted like survival. Across the room, the man didn't look up. But when Misha glanced back, just once, the man was already watching him. Their eyes locked. And neither of them looked away.

Then Strade stood. He walked slowly back toward the planter, as if checking the spot, but his eyes never left Misha. "You’re quiet. That’s rare." His voice was soft, but there was an edge beneath it now. Curiosity sharpening into something hungrier. "Most people try to talk their way out. But you just sit there. Waiting. Like you're used to being cornered."

Misha stiffened. The wrapper crinkled in his fist. Strade crouched again, not as close this time, but just within reach. "Funny thing about this place," he said, tapping the floor lightly with his knuckles. "They built it back in the sixties. Heavy duty. One entrance, reinforced door. Used to be part of a civil defense initiative."

Misha didn’t speak. "Locks from the outside," Strade added, like an afterthought. "Not many know that." Silence stretched thin. Misha’s eyes flicked toward the exit. "I didn’t lock it," Strade said. Then he smiled, wide and calm. "But I will." Before Misha could shift his weight to run, Strade moved.

Fast.

There was no dramatic scuffle. No grand fight. Just a snap of motion—Strade’s boot catching the crate, knocking it aside, and his body closing the distance in a second. Misha hissed and twisted, but his limbs were too numb, too tired. He tried to lunge for the door, but Strade had already caught him by the arm, dragging him back like a caught animal.

Something sharp zipped around his wrists. Cold plastic. Tight.

Misha’s breath left him in a shocked growl. He bucked, kicked. One foot hit the wall, another scraped concrete. But Strade held him there, calm, panting slightly, not from exertion, but excitement. "See? That’s what I like," he murmured, lips near Misha’s ear. "You’ve got bite."

Misha thrashed again, but the plastic didn’t give. His wrists were locked, tight behind him. He couldn’t get leverage, couldn’t slip free. "Don’t worry," Strade said. "I’m not mad. You just made it easier." He hauled him up, not cruelly, but with purpose.

Misha’s heart slammed in his chest. The heat lamp buzzed weakly behind them. The protein bar wrapper lay torn on the ground. Strade started walking, one hand firm around the plastic tie at Misha’s wrists. "Let’s get out of here," he said casually. "Can’t leave the door open forever, right? Someone might wander in."