Page 73 of The Collector
"You said we would do this together. How will I be able to help you if I am stuck here in the middle of no man's land?"
"Patience— Elanah— you have to learn to have patience. Everything you need to know will be revealed to you in time. But you have to trust me. Now, let me show you the room where you'll be staying. It's just over here, past the fireplace. When I go to town, I'll pick up some things for you to make your stay here more comfortable. Until then— I have some clothes you can wear. You can get a shower and relax. I'll even build you a fire before I leave. How does that sound?" He needed her guard down, needed her complaint. He hoped the allure of relaxing would keep her that way.
"This place doesn't seem like it would belong to you; you're so polished and put together. This cabin seems like a place someone who needed to escape the world would come. I assumed you enjoyed your position in the Kings, after all, it's your family." She walked around the room, examining the pictures, running her hand along the dusty surfaces, and taking in the atmosphere. He needed to get her attention back on him. Keep her from finding something she didn't need to see.
He walked towards her, placing an arm around her shoulder and guiding her to the bedroom. "Exactly," he said softly. "We all have corners we retreat to. Even the ones who help build empires. There's a lot about me you don't know. It will take time for us to build trust. We'll get there. I'll explain things to youwhen we have more time. But for now, let's get you settled. I need to get back as quickly as possible."
He settled Elanah into the guest room, guiding her gently, almost ceremoniously, as if she were royalty rather than bait. The claw bathtub in the bathroom caught her eye immediately, and for a moment—brief but genuine—she seemed enchanted by its vintage elegance.
While she ran the water, he promised to return with food and clothing, as well as something soft to change into after her bath. Something "comfortable." Then he stepped into the small kitchen and assembled a simple tray: vegetable soup, fruit slices, and chamomile tea. Nothing threatening. Nothing that would raise a question.
He stirred the tea slowly and methodically until the sedative had dissolved completely.
When she drank it, her muscles would loosen. Her eyelids would droop. Her guard would fall.
There was just enough time. if he hurried to get the sample he needed and get it in the freezer before he left if the Collector played his cards right.
The Collector moved with quiet precision through the narrow space of the cabin, navigating the boobie traps only he knew about before he descended the stairs to the lower level. Elanah lay bound upstairs, sedated and unaware, tucked into a narrative only he knew the outcome of. But the prisoner in the cage—he was different. He was the hinge on which this particular part of the story would turn on.
Without his cooperation, the frame could falter.
Sure, he could get what he wanted another way. But it would cost him—time, energy, precision. And the plan to paint Elanah as complicit in the murders? That would remain unfinished. He didn’t have time to circle back.
So he slid the mental mask into place. The one that softened his voice, steadied his gaze. The one that mimicked empathy, feigned concern. The one that made monsters look like men.
Then he reached for the real mask. The one that hid his face from the prisoner. Cold. Blank.
He unlocked the door. And stepped into the persona he’d built for this man—brick by brick, lie by lie, over two long years. The voice was familiar now. The mannerisms second nature.
Cold. Measured. Inflected with just enough emotion in it to make him feel real, still enough distance from him to be sure he wouldn't know who he was.
To the prisoner, he was a shadow. A constant presence—in the hum of the vents, the creak of the floorboards, the silence between questions.
He’d broken him long ago. Not with fists. But with isolation and gaslit suggestion, and the slow erosions of truth the prisoner once thought were true.
Those days were over. The end of his prison sentence was drawing near.
At the top of the basement stairs, he paused. Let his pupils adjust to the murky dark. The stillness was sacred. Like the hush before the curtain lifted.
Then he flicked the switch. The fluorescent light sputtered, blinked—then sighed into life.
The stage was set. He was ready to perform.
There, curled on the cot behind steel bars, was the prisoner. he lay ragged, motionless, half-submerged in sleep or surrender.
"Wakey—wakey—little Prince," the Collector murmured, his voice dipped in mock affection, the cadence meant to besoothing. "It's time you started earning that freedom you keep asking about. I need something from you to help you get it," the Collector continued. "It's a small thing, really. Might even help you get out of this hellhole sooner than you think if you play your cards right."
The man stared, waiting for him to tell him what exactly he wanted from him this time.
"I need your DNA," the Collector said calmly. "Your sperm, to be more exact."
The silence that followed was one of confusion. The man blinked as if he were unsure if he'd misheard.
Two specimen cups slid across the floor, stopping just short of his feet.
"They're sterile," the Collector added, almost casually. "You'll want to follow instructions. Contamination defeats the purpose after all. There's a spare just in case. ."
The man remained motionless, curled on the cot, breath starting to hitch.