Sometimes, over the interim forty-nine years, the scar on his neck was unsettled. An ache as skin hardened and shifted, a persistent itch or tingle in the nerves; a dermatologist once offered to laser it away entirely when he got some suspicious moles removed. Daniel had declined. He made up a story about what it was. Nonsense.

In the two weeks in that Dubai penthouse, it sometimes felt electric. A weight that would jolt or burn. He knew it was just his imagination, an expression of psychological pressure and fascination, but he still thinks of it. Even now, yet more weeks removed, in fucking Kyrgyzstan.

He thinks about Louis often. Armand is aware, he knows. The ancient vampire gets a particular look in his Halloween shifting eyes whenever Daniel does it while they're in the same room, even if he's stopped commenting on it as often. Daniel has yet to decide if he thinks that's because Armand no longer finds it worth noting, or if it's because Armand isn't always sitting inside of his head and sifting through it.

Not a prisoner. He'd agreed, after all. Sure it was under serious duress, but he could have always opted for death, he supposes.

Very casually, Daniel has made his way to the lobby of this hotel in Bishkek, and using his mashup of familiarity with Turkic languages, has managed to secure the ability to make an international phone call. It's fine. Normal. Nothing weird. He has no savior to call, no lifeline. Just this. He has no idea where Louis went after he walked out of the penthouse suite in Dubai, no idea if he's back, if the number he thinks he remembers is right, if call will even connect if it is.

Ring ring.