Chapter 4: Gifts and Chains

The gala had left a bitter taste in Lynn's mouth that lingered for days. The memory of Caius's arm around his waist, the whispers, the stares—it all played on a loop in his mind, fueling his resentment. The penthouse, once just a silent prison, now felt like a stage where he was constantly performing. He spent most of his time in the studio, but even there, the act of creating felt tainted. The expensive paints and pristine canvases were just another part of his cage.

A desperate need for connection, for a lifeline to his old life, gnawed at him. He had to try. One afternoon, when the penthouse was silent except for the ever-present hum of the city, he ventured into the study. A sleek, high-powered computer sat on the desk. His heart beat a little faster. This was a risk, but he had to know if there was a crack in the walls Caius had built around him.

He sat down and woke the screen. It prompted for a password. He tried a few obvious guesses—Caius's name, the company name, dates—nothing. A cold knot tightened in his stomach. He opened a web browser. It loaded instantly, but when he tried to type in the address of his personal email, the page refreshed and displayed a simple, stark message: "Access Restricted. Please contact Administrator."

He tried a search engine. Same message. He tried to access the settings, to see if there was any way to bypass the controls. Every path was blocked. The computer was a beautiful, useless slab of metal and glass, its functionality meticulously neutered. He was locked out of the world. The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow. There was no crack. The walls were seamless and impenetrable. He slumped back in the chair, a wave of crushing despair washing over him. He was completely, utterly isolated.

The sound of the front door opening made him jump. He quickly closed the browser, stood up, and tried to look as if he'd just been admiring the view from the study window. Footsteps approached, firm and familiar. Caius walked into the study, his gaze immediately going to the computer, then to Lynn. His expression was unreadable.

"Looking for something?" Caius asked, his tone flat.

"Just... curious," Lynn mumbled, looking away. He felt like a child caught misbehaving.

Caius didn't press further. He walked over to the desk and dropped a heavy, professional-grade art supply case onto it. The case was made of dark, polished wood, with brass fittings. It was the kind of set Lynn had once dreamed of owning but could never afford.

"Stop moping around," Caius said, his voice a command, not a suggestion. "Don't just stare into space all day. Paint something."

He didn't wait for a response. He turned and left the study, leaving Lynn alone with the expensive gift.

Lynn stared at the case. For a single, treacherous second, his artist's heart leapt. His fingers itched to open it, to feel the quality of the brushes, to see the vibrant pigments of the paints. This wasn't just any set; it was the specific brand and type he preferred, the one he'd mentioned in passing once, weeks ago. Caius had been listening. He had remembered.

The spark of pleasure was immediately doused by a colder, more rational thought. This isn't a gift. It's a distraction. A way to keep me quiet and occupied. A new, shinier toy for the pet. The care and attention behind the gift felt like just another form of control, more insidious because it was wrapped in the guise of thoughtfulness. It was a bribe to accept his captivity, to find contentment within his gilded walls.

He didn't open the case. He left it sitting on the desk, a dark, polished monument to his situation. When he returned to his studio, he ignored the beautiful new supplies Caius had already provided. Instead, he picked up a stick of charcoal—a simple, basic tool—and began to sketch on a cheap piece of paper. The lines were harsh, angry, depicting twisted, gnarled trees and barren landscapes. It was a rebellion, small and silent, but it was his.

Later, when Caius passed by the studio door and saw Lynn working intently with the charcoal, ignoring the pristine oil paints, a flicker of something—irritation? frustration?—crossed his face. He had given Lynn exactly what he should have wanted, and Lynn had rejected it. The boy's continued coldness, his refusal to be pacified, was a constant, puzzling thorn in Caius's side. He was used to people being grateful for his generosity. Lynn's silent defiance was unsettling.

That evening, dinner was a quiet, tense affair. Lynn answered Caius's few, curt questions with monosyllables, his gaze fixed on his plate. The air between them was thick with unspoken conflict. Caius had tried to give him a piece of his old life back, but on his own terms. And Lynn had made it clear that terms were not acceptable. He wanted his freedom, not a better-quality chain. The gift, meant to bridge the gap, had only widened it, highlighting the vast power imbalance and the fundamental misunderstanding between them. Lynn's heart felt as cold and hard as the unopened art case sitting in the study.