...
I woke up to darkness and pain.My head throbbed violently, each pulse of pain like a hammer striking the inside of my skull. A wave of nausea rolled through me, and when I tried to move, a sharp sting shot through my limbs. Panic surged in my chest as I realized I couldn't move my arms—or my legs.
They were tied. Tight.
I was strapped to a wooden chair, my wrists bound behind me, the coarse rope digging into my skin. My ankles were secured to the legs of the chair, and every small shift sent a flare of pain through my feet. They were raw, torn open. Like I'd been dragged—or worse, walked too far before collapsing.
The air around me was cold and damp. It smelled like mildew and rust, like something had been rotting in the corners for far too long. The walls were concrete, stained and cracked, and the only light in the room came from a single flickering bulb overhead. It buzzed faintly, casting trembling shadows on the floor that danced every time it swung.
I wasn't alone.
A man sat across from me, slouched lazily in a battered metal chair, legs stretched out, arms crossed over his chest. He looked like he hadn't bathed in days—grimy clothes, greasy hair, and a scruffy beard that didn't quite hide the scar stretching from his left ear to the edge of his mouth. His eyes were dark and glassy, but alert, like a predator waiting for his prey to wake up.
"Well, well," he said, his voice low and raspy. "Look who finally decided to join us."
I blinked at him, confused and terrified. My throat was dry, and when I opened my mouth, no sound came out. I didn't recognize him. I didn't recognize any of this. My heart thundered in my chest.
"Evelyn," he said with a crooked smile. "Oh, Evelyn. What a pleasure to have you here with us."
The way he said my name made my blood run cold.
How did he know me?
What did he want?
And more importantly… how did I get here?
I tried to remember. Last night—I'd been home. Alone. My dad was out of town. I'd watched a movie in bed. I remembered brushing my teeth. I'd turned off the light…
And then what?
My mind was blank after that. A void.
He stood up slowly, cracking his knuckles, then began to circle me. His footsteps echoed ominously against the concrete, each step deliberate and slow, like he was savoring the moment.
"You look confused. That's normal. The stuff we used on you tends to mess with short-term memory," he said. "You'll start remembering things soon enough."
I found my voice, cracked and trembling. "Where… where am I?"
He stopped in front of me, crouching low so we were eye level. "Somewhere private," he said with a smirk. "Somewhere no one's going to find you."
His breath smelled of cigarettes and something foul, like rotting meat. I gagged and turned my head, but he gripped my chin and forced me to look at him.
"I've been watching you for a while, Evelyn," he said. "You're smart. Careful. Hard to get close to. But everyone has their weak spots."
He pulled a photo out of his jacket pocket and held it up. It was a picture of me and Josh—my boyfriend—laughing by the lake, arms wrapped around each other. My blood went cold.
"I've seen the way he looks at you," the man muttered. "But he doesn't really know you. Not like I do."
"You're sick," I spat, though my voice was weak.
His grin widened. "Maybe. But I'm not the only one."
He stood again and started pacing in front of me, like a lecturer preparing to drop a big reveal.
"You know what's funny?" he said. "I didn't even have to look that hard to find you. Someone handed you over on a silver platter."
My brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"
He chuckled, shaking his head like I was the clueless one. "Your stepmother," he said casually, like he was talking about the weather. "She's the one who hired me."
The words didn't make sense at first. They floated in the air, hovering just out of reach.
"What?" I breathed.
"Oh yeah," he said. "Said she wanted you out of the way. Called me up, offered a fat stack of cash. Gave me your schedule, the layout of your house—hell, she even left the back door unlocked the night I took you."
I shook my head slowly. "No… No. That's not true."
"She was real calm about it too. Cold. Didn't care what happened, as long as you vanished."
He walked over to a rusty metal table in the corner of the room. On it were various tools—pliers, a hammer, duct tape. He picked up a long hunting knife and turned it over in his hand, admiring the gleam.
"I gotta admit," he said, glancing over his shoulder, "I was expecting some spoiled brat. But you're tougher than you look."
My breath was shallow. I felt like I was drowning in fear. But underneath the fear… something else was boiling.
Rage.
How could she?
My stepmother gad been in my life since I was twelve. She married my dad two years after my mom died. She tucked me in at night, made me lunch before school, smiled like she loved me. She wasn't perfect—controlling, always a little too interested in Dad's money—but I never imagined she could do this.
"She's lying," I whispered, mostly to myself. "She has to be."
"I don't lie, Evelyn," he said, turning to face me fully. "I don't need to. I already have what I want."
He walked toward me again, slowly this time, dragging the tip of the knife along the back of the chair as he passed. The sound scraped through my bones.
"No one's coming," he said softly. "No one even knows you're gone yet."
Tears threatened to spill over, but I clenched my jaw and fought them back. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Not yet.
My heart was breaking, but my mind was already working—thinking, planning.
He wanted me to feel helpless. But I wasn't. Not completely.
I was scared. Betrayed. Angry beyond words.