Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight!
Chapter 63: ’A Friend...Maybe?’

Chapter 63: ’A Friend...Maybe?’

Two more hours passed, each second stretching into eternity. Florian sat against the cold stone wall, his body stiff from the lack of movement. His mind ran in circles, meticulously analyzing every escape strategy he could come up with.

He had already memorized every inch of this room—the way the shadows stretched and shrank with the flickering torchlight, the rough texture of the walls, and the few potential hiding spots he could use if an opportunity arose.

The problem was that none of it would do him any good without an opening. He had no delusions of brute-forcing his way out; he wasn’t strong enough for that. No, he needed to be smart.

He needed to be patient.

’If I can just find a weakness... Anything. I can’t just sit here.’ Florian clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He could feel his frustration simmering, but he forced himself to breathe, to focus. ’Think. There’s always a way out.’

The oppressive silence was broken by the heavy creak of the wooden door. Florian’s body tensed instinctively, his breath catching in his throat as his mind snapped to attention. His muscles coiled, but he forced himself to remain still, appearing weaker than he felt. A figure stepped inside, carrying a tray of food and a canteen of water.

It wasn’t Charles.

The rogue before him was younger than the others he had seen, perhaps in his early twenties. His clothes were just as tattered as the rest of them, but his expression lacked the cruelty Florian had come to expect.

There was something in his eyes—hesitation, maybe even concern. That was new.

And that was something Florian could work with.

’I can already tell he’s not like them at all.’ Florian’s mind whirred as he studied him. The rogue was lean, slightly awkward in the way he held himself, like someone trying too hard to appear tough.

His lips pressed into a thin line, his shoulders squared, but there was a nervous energy to him, an uncertainty that reminded Florian of Cashew. Shy, but unlike Cashew, he was making an effort to seem assertive. To seem like he belonged in this role.

"Here," the rogue muttered, setting the tray down. "Eat."

Florian hesitated. This could be a test, a way to see if he was still weak enough to be controlled. But his throat burned with thirst, and his stomach ached from hours of emptiness.

He glanced at the rogue once more before slowly reaching for the canteen first, taking small, measured sips. The water was lukewarm, but it was the best thing he had tasted in hours.

The rogue watched him, arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. "You should finish all of that, you look like you’re one wind away from getting blown. No one’s gonna help you if you collapse."

Florian wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up at him carefully. This was an opening—a crack in the wall of hostility surrounding him. If he played his cards right, this could be his first real chance at gathering information. He needed to start lowkey, to be strategic.

He had spent years in his past life as a corporate slave, navigating office politics and writing persuasive copy that subtly influenced people.

He knew how to talk, how to make people comfortable, how to get what he needed without making it obvious. Information was best extracted with patience, not force. He needed to make the rogue drop his guard.

Instead of questioning him outright, Florian shifted his approach. He picked up a piece of bread, tore off a small bite, and met the man’s gaze with something softer—something cautious but appreciative.

"You don’t seem like the others," Florian said quietly, his voice hoarse from disuse.

The rogue blinked, as if caught off guard. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

Florian shrugged, chewing thoughtfully. "They enjoy this. The power, the cruelty. But you... you don’t look at me like I’m just a piece of cargo."

"Power?" The rogue didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck as if uncomfortable. Florian took note of that. A weakness, perhaps? Or guilt?

’That struck a nerve. Good.’ Florian suppressed a smirk, keeping his expression neutral.

Seconds passed before the rogue finally spoke. "Just eat," he muttered, turning toward the door. "I’ll be back later."

Florian watched as the door clicked shut, the lock sliding into place with a quiet finality. His fingers tapped idly against the tray, his mind sifting through the brief interaction. It hadn’t been much—just the barest hint of conversation—but it was enough. Trust wasn’t built in a day, but if he played his cards right...

’He could be my way out.’

His gaze lingered on the door, thoughtful. Every group of kidnappers, villains, or rogues in fiction always had that one member—the one with a conscience, the one who still had a heart.

He just had to find the cracks.

· ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── ·

Florian finished eating faster than he expected, hunger winning out over caution. The bread was stale, the soup bland, but it didn’t matter. He needed his strength. As he swallowed the last bite, he let his fingers brush over the metal fork resting on the tray.

A weapon.

His stomach twisted with anticipation. It wasn’t much, but right now, it was better than nothing. He had no idea when he’d get another chance at something even remotely useful. His eyes flickered to the door, listening for any signs of movement outside. Silence.

He started thinking through escape routes again—what to ask the rogue, how to talk to him without making him suspicious. He had to pace himself, make sure he didn’t push too hard or too fast.

There was still so much he didn’t know, too much he had to figure out. And he couldn’t let himself dwell on the worst possibility—that he’d be left behind to fend for himself. That thought alone was enough to throw him off.

So, he focused on replanning.

And first—the fork.

His grip tightened around it for a second before he exhaled slowly and forced himself to think. Hiding it on himself was too risky. If they searched him, it would be over. He needed plausible deniability. His gaze swept the room until it landed on the bed—a pathetic excuse for one, just a thin, worn-out mattress atop a rickety wooden frame.

Perfect.

Carefully, he shifted, angling his body so the rogue—if he returned—wouldn’t immediately notice what he was doing. Then, with a calculated movement, he slid the fork beneath the bed, pressing it between the old mattress and the frame. If someone looked closely, they’d find it, but if it went unnoticed? Even better. And if the young rogue saw it and questioned him, he could feign ignorance.

’It must’ve fallen. I didn’t even notice.’

Satisfied, he leaned back against the wall and forced himself to wait, his heartbeat steady but his mind racing.

Minutes passed. He occupied himself by going over every possible scenario again. If the rogue came back, he needed to continue laying the groundwork for an escape. He had to figure out where their weaknesses were, who among them could be manipulated, and who he needed to avoid.

The young rogue was his best lead. At the end of the day, everything he thought about the rogue was only based on his observation.

But was he really just a simple grunt following orders? What if Florian actually misjudged him like how he did with Heinz and anyone else from the Diamond Palace? And how much could the rogue be pushed before he shut down completely?

The problem was time. He didn’t know how long they planned to keep him here, and he couldn’t afford to be patient forever. He needed progress, fast. If he didn’t start making his move soon, he’d lose whatever small advantage he had.

Then the door creaked open again.

Florian pushed down his anticipation, expecting the young rogue.

But his stomach turned cold the second his eyes met the figure in the doorway.

Arthur.

’What the fuck is he doing here?’

His disgusting smirk stretched across his face like he’d been waiting for this moment. Florian’s breath hitched before he could stop himself, his body going rigid as an echo of a memory—no, a nightmare—flashed behind his eyes. Arthur’s voice, cruel and taunting.

The original Florian, terrified, helpless. Shadows stretching too long. Pain. A scream swallowed by the dark.

His fingers twitched, a rush of nausea curling in his gut, but he forced it down. He forced everything down.

’Fuck.’

Arthur’s smirk deepened. "You seem a bit jumpier than before." He tilted his head mockingly. "Let me guess—you finally accepted it? No one’s coming for you." He laughed, a slow, satisfied chuckle that made Florian’s skin crawl. "All that cockiness just for you to become some nobles bitch."

Florian inhaled through his nose, steadying himself. No. He wouldn’t let Arthur get to him. Not now, not ever. He swallowed back the bitterness rising in his throat and forced his expression into something neutral, something unreadable.

Calm. Controlled.

He wouldn’t let Arthur see the cracks.

Instead, he raised an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly. "You and Charles are even more idiotic than I thought." A small, humorless smile tugged at his lips.

"Hah? Are you really in a position to spout bullshit like that?"

Florian let out a laugh, light but sharp. "You think I didn’t think my words through? Do you honestly believe any noble would be stupid enough to take in a prince from the king’s harem? That they wouldn’t jump at the chance to rat you out and earn His Majesty’s favor instead?"

Arthur’s smirk faltered—just for a fraction of a second. It was quick, barely there, but Florian caught it. A small victory.

Arthur scoffed and stepped closer, but Florian didn’t move. He refused to flinch.

"Do I need to remind you that the king doesn’t care? He left you, he hasn’t even sent a reply to our ransom letter."

Florian’s smile didn’t waver. "But do the citizens know that?" He tilted his head, watching Arthur carefully. "Again, you’re far more idiotic than I thought if you truly believe His Majesty would let his pride as a king be crushed by the idea that he allows a member of his harem to be kidnapped. He may not care about me, but he most certainly cares about his image."

’He doesn’t really, but let’s hope Arthur doesn’t know that.’

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