The fire in the hearth was the only thing moving in the room.
It crawled slowly over the blackened logs, occasionally rising higher and casting orange reflections across the walls. In those brief flashes, the whole living room became visible: the heavy beams beneath the ceiling, the rain-slick windows, the open duffel bag on the floor, the cut black T-shirt, and Jacob chained to a wooden chair.
The red-and-white jacket lay on the sofa.
Without it, without the uniform and the people accustomed to stepping aside for him in the university hallways, Jacob still looked strong. His broad shoulders tensed beneath the coils of metal, the muscles in his arms twitching with every movement. But strength no longer decided anything. The chains had been secured too carefully. The chair stood firm. The key was somewhere he could not reach.
Simon stood beside the open bag.
He held an orange plastic pill bottle in his hand.
He gave it a slight shake.
In the dead silence, the pills knocked dryly against the plastic.
Jacob heard the sound before he fully understood what he was seeing.
His gaze moved from the bottle to Simon's face. Then to the empty beer bottle near the sofa. Then back to Simon's hand.
— Is that what you put in my beer?
Simon did not answer immediately.
He stared at the bottle as if Jacob were no longer in the room. As if everything Jacob had been brought here for had already ended.
— I'm sorry, — Simon said. — But otherwise you wouldn't have talked to me.
— The conversation is over.
— Yes.
— Then put that back and untie me.
Simon raised his eyes.
— No.
Jacob pulled against the chains. The metal bit into his wrists and chest.
— You got your answer.
— I did.
— I told you what you wanted to hear.
— No. You told me the truth.
There was neither satisfaction nor hurt in Simon's voice. He was no longer arguing or trying to pull new confessions out of Jacob. The answer for which the entire trap had been built had been given.
"I wanted to watch you suffer."
A few minutes earlier, Jacob had said those words to strike him. To make Simon retreat again. He had seen the words hit their mark, seen something vanish from Simon's face, and still he had not stopped.
Now the sentence remained between them.
Not as a burst of rage.
As the final explanation for three years.
— I said it to shut you up, — Jacob said. — You backed me into a corner.
Simon gave an almost imperceptible nod.
— You always said your most honest things when you wanted to hurt me.
— Don't pretend you understand everything.
— It no longer matters what I understand.
— Then what the hell do you still want?
Simon looked at him.
— Nothing.
That single word changed the room more than the appearance of the pill bottle had.
Jacob was used to demands. To pleas. To fear. Even hatred was a form of connection: it made a person look at you, answer, resist.
But Simon no longer wanted anything from him.
No apology.
No remorse.
No love.
There was no condition Jacob could fulfill. No bargain he could offer.
He still did not understand the entire plan, but he could already feel something cold and final approaching.
— What are you going to do? — he asked.
Simon turned away.
He sat on the floor beside the wall and placed the bottle next to him.
Then he took out his phone.
The cold light of the screen fell across his face, making his skin look almost white. Simon opened his messages and began to type.
Jacob watched his fingers move.
— Who are you writing to?
Simon kept typing.
— Simon.
No response.
— Answer me.
He finished the message, reread it, and added several more words.
— Craig, — he said.
The name brought Jacob a brief flash of relief.
— Good. Tell him to come here. Now.
Simon read aloud:
— "Craig, come get Jacob. The address is attached. The key is under the doormat."
He stopped.
For several seconds he stared at the screen, then typed one final line.
— "Craig, fuck you."
The faintest trace of a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.
— I've wanted to say that to him for three years.
Jacob barely registered the last sentence.
— Send it.
Simon scheduled the message.
Then placed the phone face down.
— It will be sent in three hours.
The relief vanished.
— Why in three hours?
Simon did not answer.
— Send it now.
— No.
— He could be far away. By the time he sees it, by the time he gets here…
— He'll make it.
Jacob felt the cold slowly opening inside him.
— Make it in time for what?
Simon looked at him.
— To get you.
— And you?
Silence.
Now the meaning became obvious.
Not all at once, not in a flash, but gradually, like eyes adjusting to darkness and beginning to distinguish objects that had been there all along.
The chains had not been prepared for torture.
The blanket had not been placed in the bag by accident.
The phone would send the message only in three hours.
The key had been left outside so that even Simon himself .
The pills were not meant for Jacob.
— No, — Jacob said.
Simon looked away.
— Don't be afraid. They're not for you.
The sentence only confirmed everything.
Jacob surged forward. The chains drew tight with a crash, and the chair rocked before its legs struck the floor heavily.
— Put the bottle away.
Simon did not move.
— I said put it away!
Silence.
— Can you hear me?
— Yes.
— Then do what I'm telling you.
Simon looked at him without fear.
For three years, that voice had made him freeze. A single tone was enough for his body to remember the wall behind his back, wet tile beneath his knees, the metal edge of a locker near his face.
Now the voice did nothing.
Jacob felt it.
And shouted louder:
— PUT THE BOTTLE BACK!
Simon did not even flinch.
The order struck the walls and shattered.
For the first time, power had not passed to someone else.
It had simply disappeared.
Simon stood.
He placed the phone on the table, returned to the bag, and took out the folded blanket.
Jacob tensed, watching every movement.
Simon unfolded the fabric, approached him, and draped it over his shoulders. He carefully adjusted the edge, covering Jacob's bare chest.
Jacob stared at him for several seconds, unable to understand.
— What are you doing?
— If the fire goes out first, it will get cold in here.
Simon tucked the blanket near his shoulder so it would not slip.
— You're going to do this in front of me, and you're worried I might get cold?
Simon's hands stopped.
— I'm not going to hurt you.
He said it sincerely.
Jacob stared at him.
—
A brief confusion appeared on Simon's face.
As though that possibility truly had not been part of the calculation.
He had carefully padded the chains with fabric so the metal would damage Jacob's skin less. Removed the tight jacket. Cut the shirt carefully without touching his body. Covered him against the cold. He did not intend to hit Jacob, humiliate him, or inflict physical pain.
He was simply leaving him there to watch.
— It will be over soon, — Simon said.
— For whom?
Simon did not answer.
He adjusted the blanket one last time and crouched in front of the chair.
Now their faces were almost level.
For several moments, they looked at each other in silence.
Jacob saw familiar features, yet the face seemed different. It no longer carried the usual vigilance with which Simon always followed the slightest movement of his hands. There was no expectation of the next blow.
The fear was gone not because Simon felt stronger.
He simply had nothing left to lose.
He raised a hand and slowly touched Jacob's cheek.
Jacob tensed but did not turn away.
The fingers were cool. The thumb moved lightly over his cheekbone.
For three years, Simon had imagined being able to do this one day of his own accord. Not because he was forced. Not in exchange for humiliation. Not beneath someone else's mocking gaze.
Now Jacob was very close and could neither hit him nor push him away.
But the touch changed nothing.
— Were you waiting for this? — Jacob asked.
Simon did not remove his hand.
— Yes.
— And?
— Nothing.
The answer held no accusation.
Simon simply acknowledged that the fantasy had been empty. That the man to whom he had given so much fear, pain, and longing was still only a man.
He slowly lowered his hand and stood.
— Simon.
He stopped.
— You think I want to sit here and watch?
— You used to.
— Not this.
— You wanted my suffering.
— I wanted to control it.
Jacob said the words before he had time to think.
Simon turned.
— What?
Jacob breathed heavily.
He could lie now. Say it had all been a joke, a game, entertainment. But those words could no longer save anything.
— I wanted to decide when you hurt, — he said. — How much. And when it was enough.
Simon listened.
— I didn't want Craig to go too far. I didn't want anyone else leaving marks on you. That doesn't make me better. I understand that. But it isn't the same thing.
— Why?
—
The fire crackled again in the room.
Simon stood motionless.
Hope did not light his face. He did not hear a confession in the sentence. Only another confirmation that Jacob regarded even Simon's existence as his property.
— Needed me for what? — he asked.
Jacob did not answer.
He did not know.
Or did not know how to turn the knowledge into words.
— There, — Simon said.
— I'm not going to invent a beautiful answer.
— It wouldn't change anything now anyway.
— Because you've already decided everything?
— Yes.
— Before the conversation?
Simon looked toward the pill bottle.
— I wanted to know the truth before I left.
— And if the truth had been different?
Simon fell silent.
For one moment, the question truly reached him.
But then he looked at Jacob and said:
— It wasn't.
Simon went to the table.
He picked up the phone and checked the timer.
Three hours.
Jacob watched him.
— Does your father know you're here?
Simon put the phone back down.
— No.
— Does he know about this house?
— Yes.
— When will he start looking for you?
Something resembling tired mockery appeared on Simon's face.
— Not soon.
— How not soon?
— That's why I wrote to Craig.
Jacob understood.
Without the message, no one might come for days. Simon's father might not even notice his son was gone right away.
Simon had arranged a rescue for Jacob.
But not for himself.
— Send the message now, — Jacob repeated.
— No.
— You've already proven everything you wanted.
— I wasn't proving anything.
— Then why are you leaving me here?
Simon looked directly at him.
— You wanted to watch me suffer.
Jacob clenched his jaw.
— I've already seen it.
— No.
Simon took the bottle.
— Before, you could always stop whenever you wanted.
The cap turned softly beneath his fingers.
— You could let me go. Call Craig. Leave and come back the next day. It only continued for as long as you found it interesting.
A dry click.
The bottle opened.
— Now you won't be able to stop anything either.
Jacob lunged.
The chains bit into his wrists. One link tore the skin, and blood ran over his palm.
He did not notice.
— You call this revenge?
Simon considered it.
— Probably.
— Then at least don't pretend you're doing it for yourself.
Simon raised his eyes.
— I don't do anything for myself anymore.
— Put the pills back.
Simon poured them into his palm.
White dots settled against his skin.
There was no slow ritual.
No demonstrative smile.
Simon did not check whether Jacob was frightened enough. He did not wait for the correct reaction.
He simply continued the sequence of actions he had prepared in advance.
— Are you waiting for me to start begging? — Jacob asked.
— No.
— Then what do you want to hear?
— Nothing.
— Don't lie.
— I don't expect anything from you anymore.
Simon looked at the pills.
After all those three years, his face was strangely calm — the calm of someone who no longer had the strength to be afraid.
A tear slid down his cheek.
One.
Then a second.
His expression barely changed.
— Put them back, — Jacob said.
Simon did not move.
— You wanted to talk. We talked. What happens next? You die, and I sit beside your body for several hours? Is that your plan?
— Yes.
— And then?
— Then Craig arrives.
— That's not what I mean. What comes after for you?
Simon looked at him with mild surprise.
— Nothing.
The simplicity of the answer stripped Jacob of his next words.
For Simon, there truly was no "after." No victory, no chance to see the consequences, no satisfaction from revenge. He did not expect to enjoy Jacob's suffering.
He simply wanted it to end.
— You're sick, — Jacob said.
— I know.
— A coward.
Simon nodded.
— Maybe.
— A selfish piece of shit.
— Yes.
The insults no longer caught on anything.
Jacob went through all his familiar ways of causing pain, but Simon accepted every word and did not return to their old game.
— You think everything will go your way after this? — Jacob continued. — You think I'll remember you the way you want?
— You already remember me.
— I'll hate you.
— Fine.
— I'll tell everyone what you did.
— Fine.
— They'll call you a psycho.
Simon looked at him.
— You already did.
Jacob fell silent.
Simon picked up the bottle from the floor.
The same one from which Jacob had taken his first sip several hours earlier. A little beer remained at the bottom.
Jacob saw the movement and pulled against the chains again.
— Don't.
Simon held the beer bottle in one hand and the pills in the other.
— Put them down.
No response.
— Simon.
For the first time, he said the name without an order.
Simon raised his eyes.
— Don't do this.
The words came out dull.
Not a confession.
Not a promise to change.
Just the plea of a man who had finally understood he could not force another person to obey.
Tears continued to move slowly down Simon's face.
He looked at Jacob as if he wanted to remember him exactly like this: without the jacket, without the smirk, without protection. Chained to a chair and, for the first time, not knowing what to do next.
— Bottoms up — to you! — Simon said.
He raised his palm to his mouth.
— NO!
Jacob's shout struck the stone walls.
The pills disappeared between Simon's lips.
Simon lifted the bottle.
— I'M BEGGING YOU, DON'T!
He drank.
Several quick swallows.
The bottle lowered.
Afterward, nothing changed.
The fire continued to burn.
The rain continued to fall.
Simon was still standing.
That was what made it feel unreal.
Jacob stared at him, waiting for what came next. As if Simon should laugh, reveal the hidden pills, or admit it had been another part of the game.
Simon placed the bottle on the table.
— How many? — Jacob asked.
There was no answer.
— How many did you take?
Simon closed the pill bottle and placed it beside the phone.
— Send the message now.
Silence.
— You did what you wanted. Now send it.
Simon lowered himself onto the sofa.
— Simon!
He looked at the fire.
Jacob thrashed against the chains, tearing the skin on his wrists.
— Why did you do this?! It isn't too late! Give me the key! Untie me!
— The key is under the doormat.
— I know where it is! How am I supposed to reach it?
Simon did not answer.
— The phone. Pick up the phone.
No response.
— Just send the message! Don't call anyone. Press one button!
Simon sat with his hands lowered between his knees.
— Can you hear me?
— Yes.
— Then send it.
— No.
— Why?!
Simon turned his face toward him.
— Because then you'll stop me.
— Of course I'll stop you!
— That's why.
The answer was so calm that Jacob threw his entire body forward again. The chair lifted briefly onto two legs, then crashed back down.
— You can't make me sit here!
Simon looked at him wearily.
— I already have.
At first, nothing happened.
A minute passed.
Maybe two.
Simon sat at the edge of the sofa, staring into the fireplace. Jacob kept talking — fast, furious, without stopping for even a second.
— Stand up. Go to the phone. Send the message. You can still fix this.
Simon dragged a hand over his face.
— Don't close your eyes.
— I'm not.
— Then look at me.
He did.
His gaze remained clear, but a heaviness had appeared in it.
Jacob noticed.
— Stand up.
Simon did not move.
— I said stand up.
Simon's body reacted to the old command before his mind did.
He rose from the sofa.
Slowly.
He braced one hand against the backrest.
Jacob saw it and continued:
— Go to the phone.
Simon took one step.
Stopped.
— Another.
The second step was less steady.
The floor seemed to tilt slightly beneath him. Simon touched the wall with his palm and waited.
— Take the phone.
— No.
— You don't understand what you're doing anymore.
— I understand.
— Then why are you standing?
Simon did not answer.
He pushed away from the wall and walked in the other direction.
Not toward the phone.
Toward Jacob.
— What are you doing?
Simon kept walking.
His steps grew shorter. He ran a hand along the edge of the table to keep his balance.
— Come closer, — Jacob said.
Simon stopped.
Several meters still separated them.
— Closer.
— Why?
Jacob opened his mouth.
He found no answer.
Maybe he hoped to reach the phone in Simon's pocket.
Maybe he wanted to hook Simon with his foot and make him fall nearby, where he could reach the keys.
Or maybe he simply could not watch him disappear at the other end of the room.
— Just come closer.
Simon took another step.
The floor tilted more sharply.
He reached for the armchair, but his hand missed the backrest.
His knees buckled.
Simon lowered himself first onto one knee, then the other.
— Stand up, — Jacob ordered. — Come on. You can do it.
Simon raised his head.
Jacob's face blurred before his eyes. The fire behind him split in two, then merged again into one flat stain.
— Give me the key, — Jacob was saying. — Simon, look at me. Come here. I'll help you.
Simon placed one hand forward.
Then the other.
His body obeyed less and less.
— That's it. Come on. A little farther.
He moved closer.
His arms began to shake.
— Simon, I need you.
The words escaped Jacob before he could stop them.
Not a confession.
Not love.
The raw panic of a man watching his only way out of the room fade before his eyes.
Or simply wanted to hear them differently.
The faintest smile appeared on his lips.
His elbow gave way.
He fell gently onto his side.
His cheek touched the cold floor.
The room fell with him.
The fireplace moved to the side — a flat orange stain without depth. Jacob hung in the chains at the wrong angle, small and distant.
He was shouting.
At first, Simon could still distinguish the words.
His name.
The phone.
The key.
Get up.
Then the meaning began to disappear.
Only the voice remained.
Loud.
Desperate.
Alive.
Simon looked toward him. His eyelids filled with weight. The crackling logs, Jacob's shouting, his own breathing — all of it receded behind invisible glass.
He remembered the first day.
Not the humiliation.
Not the blue barrel.
Not the locker room.
The real first day.
Jacob stood among other students, laughing. Sunlight poured through the glass wall, setting the red of his jacket alight. There were people everywhere, noise, the beginning of the academic year, dozens of unfamiliar faces.
Simon watched from a distance for several minutes.
Then forced himself to approach.
A sign hung directly above them.
The lecture hall he needed was marked with a large arrow.
Simon could see it perfectly.
He asked for directions anyway.
Jacob looked at him.
Only for a few seconds.
But back then, that had been enough to make Simon feel alive for the rest of the day.
He never understood at what moment the desire to feel that again .
— Simon! — The voice broke through the thickness. — Open your eyes!
He looked.
Jacob strained toward him but could not move.
Their roles really had reversed.
There was simply no victory in it.
— Good night, my love, — Simon breathed.
The last line of light closed.
— SIMON!
Jacob threw his whole body forward.
The chains clanged and held.
— Open your eyes! Look at me! Open your eyes, damn you!
Simon lay three meters away.
Three meters.
On the field, Jacob covered them in a single stride without noticing the distance.
Now those three meters were larger than the forest.
Larger than the night.
Larger than the whole world.
He reached forward, wrenching his shoulders. The chair creaked. The chains tore into his wrists.
He was short by several meters.
Several impossible meters.
— Give me the key! — Jacob shouted. — Where's the spare key?!
No answer.
— The phone is right there! Pick up the phone!
The body did not move.
— You can't leave me here! Do you hear me? You haven't proved anything! This conversation isn't over!
The words grew angrier.
— Get up, damn you!
Silence.
The rage vanished instantly.
Only fear remained.
— Simon…
The name came out hoarse.
— Please.
One quiet word.
Too late and too small.
Jacob repeated it again and again.
He did not confess his love.
He did not promise to change.
He did not try to invent the perfect phrase.
He simply called for him.
The way you call someone who has gone too far and can no longer hear the road back.
The fire sank lower.
The flames grew shorter. The logs split apart, exposing red cores. The light slowly crawled out of the room — from Simon's face, from the floor, from the walls — and retreated toward the hearth.
The blanket rested on Jacob's shoulders.
Simon had covered him so he would not freeze.
That care was now more unbearable than the chains.
He tried to shake off the fabric, but his bound hands would not allow it. The blanket remained over him — soft, warm, carefully tucked near his neck.
Simon's final action toward him had been kind.
And Jacob's final action toward Simon had been an order.
— Help! — he screamed at the walls. — Someone! HELP!
The house swallowed the cry.
He shouted again.
At the windows.
At the forest.
At the rain.
He called for Craig, though the message had not yet been sent.
He called for Simon's father, whom he had never met.
He called for anyone capable of opening the door.
No one answered.
His voice broke quickly.
The scream became a rasp.
Then a whisper.
— Simon…
The body on the floor did not move.
The last embers went dark one by one.
The room drowned in darkness.
Time lost its shape.
Jacob did not know how long had passed.
Twenty minutes.
An hour.
Two.
His hands had long since gone numb. His shoulders cramped. Cold ruled the room completely, though a little warmth remained beneath the blanket.
He stared toward the place where Simon lay.
Sometimes it seemed as though his chest rose.
Then Jacob held his breath and counted.
One.
Two.
Three.
Nothing.
He began to talk.
Not to confess.
Not to ask forgiveness.
Simply to keep a human voice in the room.
He said that Craig never read messages right away. That the team had a game coming up. That Priscilla had probably already blown up his phone. That the rain seemed to be getting quieter.
Ordinary things.
As if Simon were merely lying there with his back turned and could tell him to shut up at any moment.
Then the words ran out.
Only Jacob's breathing remained.
The occasional drops falling from the roof.
And silence from the floor.
No one came.
The message was supposed to be sent after three hours.
But Jacob did not know how much time remained.
He did not know how long it had been since Simon set the timer.
He did not know whether Simon himself had any time left.
And then the silence trembled.
At first it was a low, distant sound.
Tires whispering over wet gravel.
Jacob raised his head.
Maybe he had imagined it.
The sound came closer.
Stopped.
A car door slammed.
Then another.
Voices.
Quick footsteps across the porch.
A heavy blow against the door.
— Police! — someone called from outside. — Is anyone in there? Open the door!
Jacob drew into his lungs all the air he had left.
— IN HERE! — he shouted with his ruined voice. — WE'RE IN HERE! BREAK DOWN THE DOOR! HE'S DYING!
A short command sounded outside.
A blow.
Another.
The frame cracked.
The door burst inward.
Cold, pulsing light flooded the dark room.
Red.
Blue.
Red.
Blue.
It caught separate pieces of the scene: Jacob's face, the chains, the blanket, blood on his wrists, Simon's white T-shirt, the motionless body on the floor.
Two police officers rushed into the house.
— Not me! — Jacob screamed. — Him! He took pills! Help him!
One of the officers dropped instantly beside Simon.
A flashlight beam fell across the pale, upturned face.
Fingers pressed to his neck.
One second.
Another.
Jacob stopped breathing.
— He has a pulse, — the officer said. — Weak. Get an ambulance here now.
Air broke out of Jacob's chest with a short, shattered sound.
— Help him, — he repeated. — Please.
The second officer approached the chair.
— Don't waste time on me! Him first!
The room filled with voices, radio static, rapid commands. Someone opened the door wider. Cold air rushed inside and stirred Simon's hair.
Jacob looked only at him.
Never looking away.
As if his gaze could hold what his hands had failed to hold.
Only then did he notice the figure in the doorway.
A thin black silhouette stood against the flashing lights.
It did not enter.
It did not move.
It simply watched.
Red light.
Blue.
Red.
Something about the outline was familiar.
Jacob raised his head.
The silhouette did not move.
The screen fades to black.
Continued in the next episode.