I try the door. It doesn’t move. I hit it with my palm. Nothing. I slam my fist into it again and again until the side of my hand throbs. I shout until my throat aches. I yell for help, for anyone, until it feels pointless. No footsteps answer. No voices. No reaction at all.
Whoever brought me here doesn’t care if I scream.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, fingers digging into the blanket. Time stretches. Minutes, maybe hours. I don’t know. The food stays untouched. The water stays full. Fear curls in tight knots under my ribs, but it never overtakes the anger building behind it.
He took me. Not the men in the alley.Him. The man with the steady voice and the cold stare.
I picture his eyes again. Blue. Focused. Too sure of themselves.
When the door finally unlocks, the sound is small but sharp. I’m already on my feet before it swings open.
He steps inside with a cold smile on his face. He’s dressed in black, every line of him neat and controlled. His presence fills the space more than any threat could. His expression hasn’t changed since the car.
My heart pounds so hard it hurts. I grab the nearest object I can reach—a glass from the tray—and throw it at his head. It misses by inches, shattering against the wall behind him. Water sprays across the floor.
He doesn’t react. He doesn’t even raise a hand.
“You finished?” he asks.
The casual tone sparks something fierce inside me. “Let me out.”
“No.”
It’s simple. Final. He takes a few steps toward me, and I back up without meaning to. My shoulders hit the wall before I realize I’ve reached it. He stops in front of me, close enough that I can see the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw.
“I don’t hurt women,” he says. His voice stays flat. “But I expect respect.”
I’m shaking, but anger helps me hold myself together. “Respect? You kidnapped me.”
“The things you write, you’d be taken by someone sooner or later anyway.”
“You replaced one danger with another.”
“That depends on how honest you’re willing to be.”
His calmness scares me more than yelling ever could. His eyes don’t move from mine. He waits, expecting answers the same way someone expects a door to open when they push it.
He steps back, giving me space, but the air between us is still thick with tension.
“Who told you to write my name?” he asks.
“No one.”
“Who paid you?”
“No one.”
“What organization are you working for?”
“I told you already. I’m a student. I researched public data and put the pieces together myself.”
His gaze stays on me as if he’s studying every twitch in my face. I hold steady. I keep my voice clear. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of watching me crumble.
“You expect me to believe that?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He doesn’t answer right away. He stands there, silent, watching me with a level of focus that makes my pulse jump. I don’t look away. If I look away, I know I’ll lose more than ground. I’ll lose the piece of myself fighting to stay intact.
