Top Posts Tagged with #soft ending

𓂃 . ❤︎ I'll Come Back to You .

synopsis. You almost died. Gojo Satoru almost lost you. Now he's doing everything he can to keep you safe — reassigning your missions, accompanying you everywhere, never letting you out of his sight. You thinks he sees you as weak. He thinks you don't understand how close he came to breaking. — Or: a story about fear, love, and learning to let someone fight for you.

pairing. gojo satoru x f!reader

content & warnings. angst, hurt/comfort, injury/hospitalization, emotional vulnerability, healthy communication (eventually), childhood trauma (reader), insecurity, fluff ending, gojo is TERRIFIED but can't say it, reader feels inadequate, soft resolution, happy ending

word count. 2.7k+

A/N. this request came from a very lovely anon!! thank you so much for trusting me with this. i took my time with the pacing, the emotions, the slow burn of hurt and healing. the argument is tense, the communication is messy, but your love shall power thru!!!! 😼💞

The ceiling was white.

That was the first thing you noticed when you opened your eyes. White. Blurry. Too bright. You blinked once, twice, three times, and the world slowly came into focus — the fluorescent lights overhead, the beeping of machines beside you, the thin blanket pulled up to your chest.

•18+ Adults Only

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The Quiet Knowing

Summary: You’ve learned how to exist between shifts—between exhaustion and routine, between loneliness and something that almost feels like belonging. Between them. The flirting is easy. The closeness is easier. It’s always been just a joke… right?

Until someone crosses a line. And suddenly, everything you’ve been pretending not to feel becomes impossible to ignore.

Pairing: Jack Abbot x F/Reader x Michael Robinavitch

Warnings: workplace harassment (non-graphic), unwanted physical contact, emotional distress/anxiety response, angst

This is a work of fanfiction based on The Pitt. I do not own The Pitt or any related characters or settings; all original material belongs to their respective creators.

{----------------------------------------------------------------------------}

The ER never really slept.

It shifted.

It breathed differently depending on the hour—sharp and frantic during the day, quieter but heavier at night, like the walls themselves were tired. Monitors still beeped. Gurneys still rolled. Voices still carried—but softer, edged with exhaustion instead of urgency.

You had learned to exist somewhere in between.

Day shift, night shift—it didn’t matter anymore. You were wherever they needed you, filling gaps, covering shortages, becoming something steady in a place that rarely allowed for it.

And somehow, in the middle of all that unpredictability, you had found two people who made it feel… manageable.

Dr Michael Robinavitch.

Dr Jack Abbot.

And God, that had been your first mistake.

{--------------------}

hiii i saw you write for the pitt i was wondering if you could do dennis whittaker angst? maybe about amy? and ending in fluff up to you tho queen love you

Second Chance

A story about almost getting used to being second-and the night he chooses you first.

pairings: dennis whittaker x girlfriend!reader

synopsis: It starts with something small. A late arrival. A missed moment. Another quiet "I'm sorry" that doesn't change anything.

Dennis Whitaker never means to let you down. He just keeps expecting you to understand-and you always do.

Until you don't.

Because being patient is easy at first.

It's easy to tell yourself it isn't a big deal, that there's always a reason, that you'll get your time eventually.

But eventually never comes.

And somewhere between waiting and pretending it doesn't hurt, you realize you're not asking for too much-just something he's never had to think about giving.

Consistency.

Presence.

A choice.

So when you finally ask him to stay—really ask, for the first time—

it isn't dramatic.

It isn't loud.

But it changes everything.

Because Dennis has always shown up.

He's just never had to prove he could stay.

CONTENT WARNING: emotional distress, repeated disappointment, feelings of neglect/being second priority, conflict in relationship, arguments, unresolved tension, themes of abandonment (non-physical), imbalance in emotional availability, anxiety from waiting/uncertainty, difficult conversations, boundary-setting, mentions of other "responsibilities" (Amy), mild angst with resolution, fluff ending, reassurance, emotional intimacy

word count: 2.1k

The bell above the diner door rings, sharp and familiar, and your head lifts before you can stop it. It’s instinct at this point, something your body does before your brain has time to catch up, like hope refuses to learn no matter how many times it’s been proven wrong.

It’s not him.

You still hold the look for a second too long, watching the stranger pause to shake rain from their jacket before stepping further inside. Only then do you look away, lowering your gaze back to the table like it doesn’t matter, like you weren’t just waiting for that exact moment.

Your coffee has gone cold, having been left to sit a while ago. You just haven’t done anything about it, because replacing it for the fourth time doesn’t really fix the actual problem sitting in your chest.

“Still waiting?” the waitress asks as she passes, slowing just enough to glance at you properly. There’s nothing judgmental in her tone, but there’s a kind of familiarity there that makes your stomach twist anyway.

You give her a small smile, the kind that’s more polite than genuine. “Yeah. He texted—said he was on his way, so he should be here soon.”

She hums softly, topping off your cup without asking, like she’s heard that exact line before. “You want me to hold off on the menu, or do you wanna order something while you wait?”

“No, it’s okay,” you reply, shaking your head. “We’ll order together.”

The we sits heavier than it should, settling somewhere uncomfortable under your ribs.

She nods and moves on, leaving you alone with the quiet hum of the diner and the sound of your own thoughts getting louder the longer you sit there. You wrap your hands around the mug again, even though the heat is barely there it at least it gives you something to focus on.

Your phone is face-up on the table beside it, screen dark except for the message that’s been sitting there for the last half hour.

On my way.

Sent thirty-one minutes ago.

You don’t open it again this time. You’ve already read it enough that the words feel burned into your brain, and there’s nothing underneath it waiting to make it better. No update, no follow-up, no “running late” that at least acknowledges the time passing.

The bell rings again, and your head lifts automatically. You don’t even think about it anymore, just react, eyes flicking toward the door with that same small, stubborn hope.

It’s not him.

You look away quicker this time, jaw tightening slightly as you force yourself to focus on anything else. The flickering light in the corner, the low murmur of conversation from the table behind you, the way your reflection looks faintly distorted in the napkin holder.

It doesn’t help.

Because this isn’t really about tonight, and you know that. If it were just tonight, you could laugh it off or roll your eyes and tease him when he finally showed up frantic and apologizing.

But it’s not just tonight.

It’s the pattern that’s been building slowly, quietly, until you couldn’t ignore it anymore. The way plans shift or disappear the second his phone buzzes, the way “I’m sorry” comes quicker every time but doesn’t actually change anything, the way you’ve started expecting to be the one who waits.

The bell rings again.

“Hey—shit, I’m sorry.”

You look up, and this time it is him.

Dennis stands there for a second like he’s bracing himself, eyes scanning your face quickly, like he’s trying to read your reaction before he even sits down. Then he slides into the booth across from you, movements a little rushed, like he hasn’t quite caught his breath yet.

“I know I’m late,” he says immediately, hands coming up in a half-gesture like he can explain it fast enough to make it better. “Traffic was backed up and—”

He cuts himself off, exhaling sharply as his shoulders drop. “It doesn’t matter. I should’ve texted. I’m sorry.”

You don’t respond right away. Instead, you just look at him, taking in the details you always notice—the slightly disheveled hair, the tension still sitting in his shoulders, the way his eyes keep flicking to your face like he’s trying to gauge how bad this is.

And something in your expression must give you away, because his posture shifts almost immediately, the urgency fading into something more careful.

“…Hey,” he says, quieter now. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you answer automatically, even though it doesn’t sound convincing even to you.

He exhales through his nose, leaning forward slightly. “Don’t do that. You always say that when something’s wrong, and it’s never true.”

You let out a small breath, eyes dropping to the table as your fingers find the edge of a napkin. You start folding it, more to give your hands something to do than anything else.

“You don’t have to keep saying sorry,” you say after a moment, your voice steady but not soft. “Not if nothing’s actually going to change.”

The words land between you, heavier than you meant them to, but you don’t take them back.

Dennis leans back slightly, like he didn’t expect that response. “I know,” he says, slower this time. “I just—tonight wasn’t—”

“Amy?” you ask, finally looking up at him.

He hesitates for just a second before nodding. “…Yeah.”

Of course.

You nod once in return, because there’s nothing else to do with that answer. “Okay.”

“Something came up,” he adds quickly, like he needs you to understand the context. “She needed—”

“I get it,” you interrupt gently, because you do. That’s what makes this so much harder to untangle. “I do, Dennis. I get it.”

“Then why does it feel like you don’t?” he asks, frustration slipping into his voice. “I’m not doing this on purpose.”

“I didn’t say you were,” you reply, your tone still even but firmer now. “But intent doesn’t really change how it feels on my end.”

That stops him for a second, and you can see it sink in even if he doesn’t respond right away.

You take a breath, slower this time, trying to keep your thoughts from tangling together. “It just… feels like I’m competing with her,” you admit, the words coming out quieter but more honest than anything else you’ve said so far.

He flinches at that, his expression tightening immediately. “I don’t want you to feel like that.”

“I know you don’t,” you say, holding his gaze. “But I still do sometimes, and I don’t really know what to do with that.”

He leans forward, elbows on the table, hands clasping together like he’s trying to anchor himself. “It’s complicated,” he says. “It’s not just her calling and me dropping everything for no reason. It’s responsibility—things I can’t just ignore.”

“I’m not asking you to ignore it,” you reply, shaking your head slightly.

“Then what are you asking?” he presses, not harsh but strained, like he genuinely doesn’t know how to fix this.

You hesitate, because this is the part you’ve been avoiding saying out loud. “I’m asking to not feel like I come second every time something happens,” you say finally. “I’m asking to not sit here wondering if you’re actually going to show up when you say you will.”

That lands harder than anything else, and you can see it in the way his shoulders drop slightly, the tension shifting into something heavier.

“I didn’t realize it was like that,” he admits.

“That’s kind of the problem,” you say, not unkindly, just honest.

His phone buzzes.

The sound cuts through everything, sharp and familiar, and you feel your stomach twist before you even think about it. You both know who it is without checking.

He pulls it out anyway, glancing at the screen, and you watch the shift happen again—the way his attention starts to split, the way his posture tightens like he’s already halfway out the door.

“Is it her?” you ask quietly.

“…Yeah.”

You nod, because of course it is. “Go,” you say, the word slipping out automatically. “It’s fine.”

He doesn’t move.

You frown slightly, confused. “Dennis—”

“Or I don’t,” he says, cutting in.

You blink at him. “What?”

“I don’t go,” he repeats, more firmly this time, even as the phone buzzes again in his hand. He looks at the screen, jaw tightening, then back at you.

“You always go,” you point out, because that’s the pattern, the one you’ve both been following without really questioning it.

“Yeah,” he admits, exhaling slowly. “I do.”

Another buzz.

He stares at the phone for a second longer, like he’s weighing something, then presses the button and silences it. The screen goes dark in his hand, and the diner noise fills the space where the buzzing was.

“I can call her later,” he says, more measured now. “Or text. Or figure it out without leaving right now.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you say, because it feels wrong to ask him to stay when you know what he’s used to doing.

“I know I don’t,” he replies.

He flips the phone face down on the table, like he’s removing the option entirely.

“I’m choosing to.”

You don’t have an immediate response to that. It throws you off in a way you weren’t expecting, because this isn’t how this usually goes.

“…Why?” you ask, your voice quieter now.

He looks at you, and this time there’s no hesitation. “Because you’re sitting here asking me not to leave without actually saying it,” he says. “And I’m done acting like i don’t see it.”

Your throat tightens at that, because he’s not wrong.

You look down at your hands, fingers twisting together, and for a second you consider letting it go again, brushing it off the way you usually do.

But you don’t.

“…Can you just stay?” you ask finally, the words coming out softer but steadier. “Just this once.”

He nods immediately. “Yeah. I can do that.”

And he does.

He stays, and it’s not halfway or distracted or temporary. He doesn’t reach for his phone again, doesn’t check it under the table or glance at it every few minutes. He just… stays, and it feels unfamiliar in a way that almost makes you uneasy at first.

The conversation doesn’t fix itself right away. There are pauses, moments where neither of you quite knows what to say, but it isn’t as heavy as before. It’s quieter, more grounded.

“You should’ve told me sooner,” he says after a while, his tone more thoughtful now. “About how it’s been feeling.”

You shrug slightly. “I didn’t want to make it a whole thing.”

“It already was a whole thing,” he replies. “You were just dealing with it by yourself.”

You don’t argue with that, because there’s nothing to argue.

“I’m not trying to make you feel like you’re doing something wrong every time your phone goes off,” you say instead.

“I know,” he says. “That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?”

He exhales slowly. “It’s me getting used to reacting to her first and not realizing what that looks like from your side,” he admits. “And not realizing how often I’ve been leaving you to deal with that on your own.”

That lands differently than the explanations from before. It feels less like justification and more like awareness.

You nod slowly, letting that settle.

“Okay.”

The next time you come to the diner, you’re early, and there’s a quiet nervousness sitting in your chest that you don’t quite know what to do with.

You push the door open, the bell ringing overhead, and glance toward your usual booth out of habit.

“Hey.”

You look up, and Dennis is already there, sitting in your booth with two mugs of coffee in front of him. He looks a little unsure, like he’s been there long enough to start second-guessing himself.

“I didn’t know what you wanted,” he says, gesturing to the mugs. “So I just got both.”

You step closer, glancing at the clock on the wall before looking back at him. “How long have you been here?”

He shrugs, trying to play it off. “Not long.”

He’s been there at least fifteen minutes.

Waiting.

For you.

You slide into the booth, wrapping your hands around the mug he nudges toward you, and this time the warmth feels different. It doesn’t feel like something to distract yourself with. It just feels… steady.

“You’re early,” you say, softer now.

He huffs out a quiet breath. “Yeah. I figured I should start showing up like I say I will.”

You look at him for a moment, really look at him, and it’s not a grand gesture or some dramatic fix.

It’s just effort.

Consistent. Intentional.

Real.

“Okay,” you say, and this time when you settle into the booth, it doesn’t feel like waiting.

It just feels like being there.

With him.

a/n: it ended up being more of a slow, quiet kind of angst with amy in the background but still very much there 😭 and i gave it a soft ending because i couldn’t NOT

i really hope you enjoyed it and it was up to your expectations <3

reblogs and comments are extremely appreciated, don’t be afraid to share your thoughts because I love hearing them!! sorry for any typos <3

SYMBIOSIS

yandere zombie choso x f!reader

[no curses/zombie au] an outbreak had people turning against each other, however, after your boyfriend, choso was bitten, he acted far stranger than anyone else at all • four parts 💫 • a/n: there is violence in this chapter and major character death(s)

on ao3 • more nightmarish stories • chapter four of four < first chapter • previous chapter

You watched as Choso left, knowing that he was making a decision on what felt safest, and not what his heart urged him towards. If these two were to keep their word, then he should be able to retrieve you unharmed, but even so, there was still a risk that this could all go wrong. A hostage situation was never so simple, after all.

Choso, however, was never careless with anything he did; therefore, this must have been a difficult decision for him, especially. It couldn’t have been easy to blindly trust the people who put you in such danger and him on edge, but he was already used to situations like these, back when he was fully alive.

Independent Players— The Quiet After

(timeskip era, angst / comfort) Includes Sakusa, Komori, Hoshiumi, Hirugami, Terushima, and Meian.

│ after the noise fades, all that’s left is the choice to stay

this is the series finale of Sticks and Stones and The Weight of Words

──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

Sakusa Kiyoomi

the rain outside had been falling for hours. slow, steady, the kind that makes the whole city feel muted. you were on the couch, legs tucked under a blanket, pretending to scroll through your phone. the apartment smelled faintly of soap and something citrus — one of the cleaners he’d used earlier.

#sakusa kiyoomi x reader #komori motoya x reader #hoshiumi korai x reader #hirugami sachirou x reader #terushima yuuji x reader #meian shūgo x reader #haikyuu x reader #the quiet after #angst to comfort #hurt/comfort #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu writing #timeskip era #soft ending

•18+ Adults Only

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You Have Me

pairing: Jay Halstead x Female Reader (ft. Kelly Severide)

requested: no

word count: 1.2K

warnings: attempted carjacking, physical assult (non-graphic), brusing, minor injuries, emotinal distress, comfort after trauma, anxiety

summary: After an attempted carjacking leaves you bruised and shaken, the first to arrive is CFD and Kelly Severide. The second is the only person you want.

The first thing you remember is the sound.

Your own breathing.

Too loud. Too fast.

The alley had been quiet when you parked. Just a quick stop. In and out. You’d done it a hundred times.

Then the passenger door yanked open.

A stranger’s hand grabbed your arm.

“Out. Now.”

Your brain didn’t even process it at first. You froze. The smell of gasoline. His grip tightening. Your pulse roaring in your ears.

You tried to pull away.

He shoved you back against the car hard enough that your head clipped the window.

Your phone slipped from your hand and hit the pavement.

“Keys.”

Your fingers trembled. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t do anything.

A siren wailed in the distance.

The man swore and bolted.

You slid down the side of your car, legs giving out, staring at nothing.

Someone nearby must have called it in.

And because it was Chicago… the cavalry came fast.

Red lights bounced off brick walls as Chicago Fire Department rolled in first.

Truck 81.

You barely registered it until boots hit pavement.

“Hey! Hey, we got someone over here!” one of the firefighters called.

Then you heard his voice.

“Y/N?”

You blinked.

Kelly Severide was suddenly crouched in front of you, turnout coat open, helmet off, eyes scanning you from head to toe.

“What happened?”

You tried to answer, but your voice cracked.

“He…he tried to…”

Severide’s jaw tightened instantly. His hand hovered near your shoulder but didn’t touch until you nodded.

“Okay. Okay. I’ve got you,” he said, calm but firm. “You’re safe. You’re okay.”

Another firefighter checked your head gently where you’d hit the glass.

“Minor bump. No bleeding,” they reported.

Severide didn’t look away from you.

“Did he have a weapon?”

You shook your head no.

“Just… grabbed me.”

Sirens again.

Different tone.

Different urgency.

Severide glanced toward the street.

“Intelligence’s here.”

And suddenly your heart jumped into your throat for a completely different reason.

Chicago Police Department SUVs screeched to a stop.

Before the vehicle had fully settled, the door flew open.

And there he was.

Jay Halstead, your boyfriend.

He didn’t look at anyone else.

Didn’t wait for a briefing.

Didn’t even shut the car door fully.

His eyes found you immediately.

And something in his expression broke.

He crossed the distance in seconds.

“Y/N.”

Your composure shattered.

“Jay.”

He dropped to his knees in front of you, hands immediately on your face, scanning for injuries.

“Talk to me. Are you hurt? Did he touch you? Did he…”

“I’m okay,” you whispered, but your voice trembled.

His hands slid to your shoulders, grounding you.

“I’m right here. I’m right here.”

Severide stepped back slightly, giving space, but stayed close enough to hear.

“He ran before we got here,” Severide said quietly. “She hit her head, but she’s alert. Shaken.”

Jay nodded once, tight.

“You scared me, I heard the call come in over the radio.” he admitted under his breath.

You let out a shaky laugh that immediately turned into a sob.

“I didn’t even think. I just, I just wanted you.”

His arms wrapped around you instantly, pulling you into his chest like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“I’m here,” he said into your hair. “You’ve got me.”

Behind you, Severide stood, arms crossed, eyes scanning the alley.

Protective. Silent.

Watching Jay just as much as he was watching the scene.

“Witness said the guy ran west,” one of the officers reported.

Jay didn’t move.

Another detective approached cautiously. “Halstead, we can…”

“Two minutes,” Jay said without looking up.

It wasn’t a request.

The detective backed off.

You clutched Jay’s jacket like it was the only solid thing in the world.

“I couldn’t breathe,” you whispered. “I froze.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

“That’s not weakness,” he said firmly. “That’s survival.”

Your eyes were glassy. “I was so scared.”

His thumb brushed under your eye, catching a tear.

“I know.”

Severide cleared his throat gently. “Ambulance wants to take a look at you, just protocol.”

You nodded.

Jay looked back at you.

“They’ll just check your head and for any bruising, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

A few minutes later, you were sitting on the back step of the ambulance while a paramedic shined a light in your eyes.

Jay stood directly in front of you, one hand resting on your knee.

Severide leaned against the truck nearby, watching both of you with a subtle, protective presence.

“Concussion unlikely,” the paramedic said. “But if you feel dizzy, nauseous, call it in. We also noticed some bruising on her shoulder and hip. She’ll be sore but she’ll be okay.”

Jay nodded.

Severide finally stepped closer.

“You sure you’re good?”

You managed a small smile. “Yeah.”

He looked at Jay. “You good?”

Jay’s jaw flexed.

“I will be.”

Severide held his gaze for a second, a silent understanding between them.

Then he clapped Jay lightly on the shoulder.

“We’ll hang around until you’re clear.”

Jay gave a small nod. “Thanks, Sev.”

Severide shrugged like it was nothing.

It wasn’t.

When the scene finally started to quiet down, Jay crouched back in front of you.

“Do you want to go home?”

You shook your head slightly, leaning into him again, exhaustion settling in now that the adrenaline was gone.

Severide watched for a moment longer, then stepped back toward his truck, giving you privacy but not leaving entirely.

Jay pressed a kiss to your temple.

“You don’t ever have to go through something like that alone,” he said softly.

You tightened your hold on him.

“I know.”

And for the first time since it happened, your breathing slowed.

You were shaken.

But you were safe.

Later, Jay’s Apartment

The city was quieter here.

Dim lights. Soft shadows.

You were sitting on the edge of Jay’s bed while he knelt in front of you again but this time with an ice pack.

“Let me see,” he said gently.

You slid your jacket off.

The bruise on your shoulder was deepening, purple already spreading.

Jay’s jaw tightened again, but he kept his voice soft.

“He grabbed you here?”

You nodded.

“And here,” you added quietly, lifting your shirt just enough to show the faint mark along your hip.

Jay exhaled slowly, like he was holding back everything.

He pressed the ice gently to your shoulder.

You winced.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

His hand never left you. Even while holding the ice, his thumb brushed small circles against your arm.

Grounding.

“Talk to me,” he said.

You hesitated.

“I keep replaying it.”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t know what to do. I froze. It all happened so fast.”

“You survived,” he corrected.

Your eyes welled again.

“I just wanted you.”

His composure cracked a little at that.

He set the ice aside carefully and stood, pulling you up with him.

Then he wrapped you in his arms.

Fully, protectively.

Like he could shield you from the world itself.

“You have me,” he whispered into your hair. “Always.”

You pressed your face into his chest.

His heartbeat was steady now.

Strong.

“Stay here tonight,” he said.

“I am.”

He helped you lie down, adjusting pillows so your shoulder wouldn’t ache.

Then he slid in beside you.

One arm around your waist.

The other resting lightly over your bruised shoulder, protective but gentle.

“I love you, Y/N”, he whispered.

Your breathing finally began to even out.

“I love you too, Jay.”

Down the block, sirens wailed faintly in the distance.

But here?

There was only warmth.

And Jay wasn’t letting go.

#fanfic #jay halstead #chicago #chicago pd #jay halstead x female reader #established relationship #protective Jay Halstead #comfort Jay Halstead #kelly severide #intelligence unit #firehouse51 #angst #soft ending #requests open #dms open

we don’t say it, but we feel it

stay anyway (pt7)

Description: After everything finally breaks between them, there’s no pretending left. Just honesty, quiet closeness, and figuring out what comes next when neither of them wants to let go anymore.

#uconn wbb #uconnwbb #pazzi series #Pazzi #aftercare #aftermath #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #Paige bueckers #azzi fudd #emotional fic #slow burn payoff #comfort fic #soft ending #series fic #Spotify

♡⃕⠀ ⠀Out of Love with Me ۪ ׄ

synopsis. He's been waiting for you to leave. Every day. Every silence. Every time you look at him a little too long. He's waiting for the moment you finally realize — he's not worth staying for. (You never do.)

pairing. gojo satoru x f!reader

content & warnings. post-unsealing, major angst, emotional hurt/comfort, gojo is BROKEN but hides it, reader sees through him, talks of self-doubt and worthlessness, crying, soft ending (hopeful), inspired by laufey's "i wait, i wait, i wait"

word count. 2k+

A/N. this request came from our very lovely @ressyshi — thank you so much for trusting me with this!! i listened to laufey on loop while writing. i'm not okay. you're not okay. we're not okay TvT

P.S, also, this is really embarrassing to admit, but i forgot the plot of jjk 〒▽〒 so i hope this still somehow follows the plot !! oh and, it's a mix of gojo and reader's POV ^^

Three years.

That's how long he'd been trapped. Three years of nothing — no light, no sound, no time. Just darkness pressing in from all sides, suffocating, endless. He'd counted every day. Every hour. Every second. That was the worst part — he'd kept track. He'd known exactly how long he'd been in there. One thousand one hundred eighty-eight days. He'd marked every single one.