To the left, heavy curtains spill floor to ceiling, drawn tight. The fabric is thick, almost theatrical. I slide off the bed, bare feet hitting wood, and pad toward them slowly, soft-stepping to test for squeaks. There aren’t any. Of course there aren’t. These floors are old, but someone cared for them.
I slip my fingers into the curtains and part them an inch. London looks back, wet and yellow-lit and indifferent.
We’re high up. Fourth floor, maybe fifth, judging by the angle on the street lamps and the way the neighboring roofs slope. The window itself is tall and narrow, an old sash style retrofitted withinternal reinforcement. I can see it in the glint—thin, almost invisible rivets along the inner frame.
I press my palm against the glass. Thick. Double-layered. I test the latch next and it doesn’t give.
There’s a tiny, neat square of metal bolted where the original release would have been. Tamper-proof. Whoever owns this place is not new to holding things they shouldn’t be holding.
Okay. Windowisn’tmy first option.
I let the curtain fall back into place and turn to the door.
My bare feet barely whisper against the floor as I cross to it. I pause with my ear against the wood. Listen.
Still nothing.
I wrap my fingers around the handle and try it.
Locked.
Not a shock. But the lock matters. The lock tells me what they think I am.
I lean in, squint in the low light. It’s not a deadbolt. Not a double or triple external reinforcer. The hardware is sleek, flush, keyed on the outside, thumb-turn inside… that has been removed. The hole where the thumb-turn should be is a clean circle of innards and cool air.
So they modified the interior side.
It’s petty, but for some reason that annoys me worse than the lock itself. You buy this level of door hardware and then punch out the safety feature like some over controlling landlord?Coward move.
But I also clock something else… This isn’t steel. This is dense, older wood. Strong, but not indestructible.
If I pry up one of the brass pulls on the dresser, or snap one of the closet rods, I could get leverage.
Noted.
I turn from the door and move through the room again, slower this time, looking past the obvious comfort and into the bones. I clock two cameras.
One in the upper corner opposite the bed, discreet, caged in a black housing that blends against the molding. Another in the ceiling light fixture, so small you’d miss it unless you were already looking for surveillance. Neither have visible red indicator lights. They’re the kind that doesn’t blink. The kind that assumes you won’t notice you’re being watched until after you’ve already given them what they want.
I look straight at the nearest one and smile without warmth. “Enjoying the show?” I whisper.
If they’re smart, they’ll have audio.
I’ll let them think I’mnot.
I go to the dresser next. Top drawer first.
Clothes. Not mine, but close enough you’d think someone guessed. Soft T-shirts, black and white. Underwear, still in their folded shop rolls. Sports bras. Socks. None of it looks worn. All of it looks bought for me.
My stomach turns. It’s not the captivity that rattles me. It’s the familiarity. The presumption. The quiet little message stitched into the cotton…
You’ll be here a while.
Second drawer is filled with joggers, leggings, a pair of black jeans.
Third drawer has nothing but a neatly coiled phone charger, two hair ties, and—of all things—a tin of salve. I pop it open, sniff. Arnica and clove. For bruising.
The anger sharpens to something colder, cleaner. They’ll bruise me. Then they’ll stock ointment like an apology.
