For as long as Merritt stays still enough for his movements not to be mistaken for escape, the chains remain unmoving, too, content to simply hold him in place, albeit in a permanent state of too tight, too much. Time marches onward, though how much is hard to tell, between the fact that there are no clocks, no windows in the room, and the fluid quality of dreams, and everything is still, silent. Apparently the projections that were chasing them downstairs, whether they were Ben's or part of Dylan's half of this trap, have either ceased to exist or don't care enough to keep an eye on him.

It seems, for a moment, for ages more than, for both at the same time, that this is it, that Dylan honestly did leave him here to rot -- and then there's the sound of footsteps in the hall.

Whoever or whatever it is, they're obviously trying and mostly succeeding at stealth, but in an otherwise silent building, the sound still sticks out. They stop outside Merritt's door and, after a beat, the door rattles as whoever's on the other side tries to push it open. The deadbolt catches the door, stops them from coming in, and there's a growl of a swear, followed by what sounds, very vaguely through the wood, like Henley's name. Another pause and a hand pushes through the reality of the door, not a woman's, not Henley's, but like her, phasing through it. Fingers scrabble for the lock, find it, turn it open, and then the hand withdraws. The door opens in earnest less than a heartbeat after that, and Dylan steps into the room.

Not unlike the first time, he takes a few seconds to clear the room, this time, with a gun, found or created from the ether, and -- and he stops when he spots Merritt, recoiling as if physical struck. Despite the fact that he was just here, there's worry behind his eyes, fear and now horror, all of it out of place with the anger, the cold from earlier.

"Jesus Christ," he breathes, and then he's moving for Merritt and the chair, tucking the gun away as he goes.