The man watches her reaction, delighted. He sees the flicker of hope in her eyes and feeds off it like it's oxygen.
"What do you want me to do?" he taunts, tilting his head. "Answer the call?"
Grace glares at him, her chest heaving beneath the ropes. She doesn't move, doesn't nod, doesn't give him anything. She knows better. There's no mercy in him. He's not offering help—he's playing with her.
But still, the urge to scream "Yes, please, answer it!" nearly breaks her in half.
He keeps staring, his smile thin and twitching at the corners.
"Tell me. Should I answer?"
She lowers her head, frustration simmering just beneath her skin. Her hands twist behind the chair. Her heart pounds like a warning bell.
"Say the word, and I'll do it," he purrs.
Finally, her resolve cracks just enough. She looks up and gives him a single nod.
His laughter bursts out of him like a jack-in-the-box snapping open.
"Oh, now you want to talk?" he snorts. With a dramatic swipe, he answers the call and places it on speaker.
"Grace! Why didn't you answer the call?" Harry's voice crackles to life, frantic and breathless.
Grace's entire body jerks. Her scream is guttural but muffled—trapped behind the thick tape across her mouth. She tries again, louder, forcing her vocal cords into action, but it's no use. All Harry hears is silence.
"Grace? Are you there? Grace?!"
She slams her feet against the floor, the force dragging the chair an inch backward. Then again—harder. The legs scrape violently against the concrete, each thump louder than the last.
Harry's voice spikes in panic. "Wait—Grace?! Where are you?! You can't speak? What's going on?! Talk to me, please!"
Her eyes flood with tears, not from fear now—but from sheer helplessness.
The man's finger hovers. And then—click.
He ends the call.
The silence afterward is soul-shattering.
"That's enough," he says, brushing imaginary dust off the phone. His grin returns like a mask he never really took off.
"Oh, and don't bother hoping he'll trace the call. Or the GPS," he adds nonchalantly, turning toward the old rusted sink at the side of the room. "Because I'm about to drown this little guy where no signal's ever coming back."
Grace's eyes fly open, horror surging through her like a current.
No. No, no, no.
Of all the threats swirling around her, it's this moment—the image of her phone slipping beneath the surface of that filthy water—that roots a scream so deep in her chest she thinks her lungs might collapse. Not just because it's expensive, not just because it holds everything she needs to function in this world—but because right now, that phone is her only possible connection to the outside. To safety. To Harry. To anyone.
The man—no, the monster—steps slowly toward the wall. His boots make a dull thud against the basement's cold, concrete floor. Every movement he makes is calculated, theatrical, like he's savoring the torment painted across Grace's face.
There, in the corner of the room, is a grimy plastic tub—half-filled with stagnant water that smells faintly of rust and mold. He stops before it and holds the phone just above the surface. The screen is still lit. Notifications blink. Hope pulses in that small glowing rectangle.
And then—he pauses.
He turns his head slightly, catching Grace's eye. A wicked grin spreads across his face, stretching his features in that same grotesque way that's haunted her since the moment he locked the door.
"Now's the best time to drain your phone, right?" he says, voice dripping with venomous amusement.
Grace's heart slams against her ribs. Her body shakes with urgency. She thrashes, harder this time, her feet pounding the floor in raw, rhythmic desperation. The wooden chair screeches beneath her, dragged inch by inch as she kicks. Her toes slam the concrete with such force that the entire room echoes with violent thumps, but it's a hollow sound, swallowed by the silence beyond these walls.
No one hears. No one is coming.
The room they're in—this small, suffocating prison—must be tucked somewhere deep in the basement, hidden, forgotten. She doesn't even know how they got here. The last thing she remembers is walking outside… then darkness. Then this.
The man lets out a shrill, delighted cackle.
Her panic only entertains him more.
And then—he drops it.
The phone slips from his fingers like a stone, and with a soft plunk, it disappears beneath the murky water.
No!
Grace lets out a muffled scream, long and ragged, the sound catching in her throat behind the gag. Her body convulses with fury, her bound fists clawing at nothing. Her rage is no longer quiet. It's volcanic. It erupts in every stomp of her feet, every sharp lurch of her shoulders. She glares at him with such ferocity that if her eyes were blades, he'd be in pieces.
The man laughs, savoring the chaos he's created like a child smashing ants under his heel.
Grace's whole body shakes—not with fear anymore, but with pure rage.
She wants to break free. She wants to lunge at him, to claw his face open, to make him feel even a fraction of the helplessness he's made her endure. She wants to kill him.
Julian's eyes are fixed on the road, but his mind is racing miles ahead. The glowing numbers on the GPS screen glare back at him like a countdown—15 minutes. Each second feels like it bleeds into the next, heavier than the last. His hands clutch the wheel so tightly his fingers begin to tremble from the strain.
Then—
Bzzzzzz.
The car's Bluetooth console lights up.
Harry.
Julian doesn't even breathe before slamming the answer button.
"Yes, Harry."
"Julian!" Harry's voice explodes out of the speakers, hoarse, ragged, wild with fear. "I just called Grace! She picked up—she actually picked up—but she didn't say anything!"
Julian's body goes still, save for the slight quiver in his grip.
"She answered, but didn't say a single word?"
"No," Harry gasps. "It was just silence. But then—there were noises. Thuds. Heavy ones. Repetitive. Like she was trying to say something without words. I could hear her moving, struggling maybe, but it didn't make sense. It wasn't right."
A cold blade of fear sinks into Julian's gut. Something about this feels very wrong—a silence that isn't peaceful, but trapped.
His breathing deepens. "Did you try calling again?"
"I did. A dozen times. Then I contacted the police—they tried to ping her GPS, but—" Harry's voice falters, then sharpens. "It's off. They can't track it. It's like her phone vanished."
Julian's foot instinctively presses harder on the gas. The engine growls. He swerves past a slower car without thinking.
"She wouldn't turn it off," he mutters. "Not unless someone made her."
There's a pause on the line. Harry's breathing comes through, shaky and hollow.
"I know," Harry says. "And Julian… if something happens to her—"
"Don't." Julian's voice snaps, low and trembling. "Don't say that. We're not going to think like that."
Harry exhales, shaky.
"I just— I feel like this is my fault. I should've stayed with her longer. I should've—"
"Harry." Julian's tone lowers but gains intensity. "We'll find her. Don't worry."
"I'm almost there," Harry mutters. "Twelve minutes maybe. Maybe less if I keep running the lights."
Julian's eyes flicker to the navigation again.
Fourteen minutes. He swears under his breath.
"If she tries to call again," Julian says tightly, "merge the call, loop me in. Anything, I want to hear it."
"I will. I promise."
Julian nods once, even though Harry can't see it. His hand lifts to the screen, hesitating for a heartbeat over the red button. Then—tap.
But nothing ends.
The silence in the car is now more deafening than Harry's voice.
He presses his lips together, jaw tight, as the city lights rush past him.
He slams his foot down harder on the pedal.
"So your phone is literally dying now… in the water."
The stalker guy sneers, crouching beside the chair with that same grotesque smile he's worn since the beginning. His eyes glint with amusement, cruel and unhinged.
"Haha. How does it feel, Grace? Watching the phone Julian gave you drowned like that?"
The sound of water trickling onto the basement floor echoes louder than it should, each drop hitting like a ticking clock. Time is passing. Seconds she'll never get back. Yet in this moment, fear is not the sharpest thing cutting through her—it's rage.
Pure, undiluted rage.
Her jaw tightens. Her chest rises with short, shaking breaths. It's not just the phone, or the ropes chafing her skin, or even the suffocating stench of mildew and metal. It's him. The sick pleasure in his voice. The way he circles her like a predator, so sure he's won.
What a stupid, pathetic man. He thinks he has power. He thinks this is control.
The cords dig into her wrists and ankles, but Grace barely registers the pain anymore. The pressure in her head grows with clarity—the kind that comes only when a storm breaks.
When did he begin this? When did he start this obsession over me?
Suddenly, from the other side of the basement, a voice pierces the heavy silence like a bullet through glass.
"GRACE! Grace!!!"