The first thing I register is the sting. A sharp, shocking slap that cuts through the fog in my head and forces my eyes to snap open. Pain ricochets through my skull, everything throbbing, my temples pounding as if my brain itself is bruised. My eyelids flutter, the harsh fluorescent glare above burning my retinas. I squint, groaning, but the sound dies in my throat when I realize I can’t move.
I’m not just sitting—I’m bound. My wrists are raw against rope, tied tight to the arms of the wooden chair. My ankles secured. My back pressed straight as a rod because there’s no room to slump. Panic shoots through me, slicing through the haze.
What the hell.
My breath stutters out in shallow bursts, chest heaving. I look around but there’s nothing except the cracked concrete floor, the shadowed corners, and that blinding, single bulb swinging slightly above. A basement maybe. A warehouse. I don’t know.
Then I see a man.
He’s standing so close I can smell the stale cigarette smoke clinging to his skin. A white vest stretched over a broad chest, tattoos crawling up both arms, wrapping his veins in black ink. He’s watching me like I’m not a person but a thing. A thing he owns.
“Good,” he mutters, voice scratchy, a grin spreading as he leans down, tilting his head. His hand rises, calloused fingers brushing my cheek. I jerk, trying to pull away, but I can’t move. The pad of his thumb drags over my lips slowly, intimately, as if tasting them with his skin.
I want to vomit.
Revulsion coils in my stomach, tears burning at the back of my throat. I twist my head to the side, but he cups my jaw firmly, forcing me still. His thumb presses harder. My lips part involuntarily on a sob.
“Pretty little thing,” he murmurs.
I recoil, the taste of his skin lingering. My voice cracks. “Don’t touch me.”
He chuckles like my resistance is cute, fingers trailing down to skim the hollow of my throat. My heart slams against my ribs. No. No, no, no.
But before his hand can wander further, another voice cuts through the silence.
“Quit it.”
I freeze. That voice—deep, controlled, but laced with authority—vibrates through the room. My head jerks toward the shadows, and another man emerges. He’s taller. Broader. Clad head to toe in black. Boots, pants, gloves. A balaclava conceals his face entirely, only his eyes visible. Cold gray eyes, steel-like, narrowed on me.
Tattooed Vest straightens instantly, stepping back like a soldier reprimanded.
I stare at Gray Eyes, every cell in my body screaming to bolt even though I can’t. He radiates menace without moving, the kind of power that doesn’t need to shout to be obeyed.
“Who are you?” My voice cracks, high and desperate. “Where am I? What do you want?”
“Shut it,” he snaps, his tone like a blade.
I flinch. My pulse races so fast I think I might faint again.
But my mouth doesn’t know how to stop. Words tumble out in choked sobs. “Please, someone help me! Please, I didn’t do anything! You’ve got the wrong person! Just let me go!”
“I said shut it.”
His gloved hand slams against the back of the chair, inches from my head, making the wood rattle. I gasp, shoving back as far as the restraints will let me.
The hours that follow blur. Minutes stretch, crawling across my skin like fire ants. My throat aches from crying, from begging, from screaming myself hoarse. They don’t answer. They don’t explain. They just exist around me, shadows moving, sometimes watching, sometimes gone. The overhead bulb hums relentlessly, every flicker dragging me further into panic.
And then it hits me. A different kind of pressure. Low in my abdomen, sharp and humiliating.
Oh God.
I’ve been sipping soda all day—cheer practice, the convenience store, even in the car before everything went to hell. Now it’s catching up to me. My bladder clenches painfully.
No. Not this. Not here.
“I… I need the bathroom,” I whisper. My voice is small, brittle. Neither man answers.
I lick my dry lips, desperation spiraling. “Did you hear me? I need to go. I’m serious, I can’t hold it. Please.”
