Who would have thought that deciding to duck into the first bar you saw to wait out the rain would cost you so dearly?

The man—Strayd—had seemed friendly at first. He smiled constantly, chattered endlessly, and insisted you let him buy you a drink. It was obvious he liked you. Yet, despite the relaxed atmosphere, a vague sense of unease nagged at you, as if something about the situation was profoundly wrong. That’s why, when the rain eased slightly, you politely said goodbye and stepped back into the street, hurrying home.

Of course, you never made it home. Your new acquaintance was far too displeased that your encounter ended so abruptly. He followed and caught up with you in the nearest alley. When you refused to get into his car voluntarily, struggling fiercely, Strayd’s hands closed around your throat with enough force to make consciousness slip away almost instantly, leaving your limp body at his mercy.

The first thing to pierce the fog of unconsciousness—though it seemed to last only a few moments—was the rhythmic pounding of blood in your ears, like the distant roar of the ocean. Then another sound emerged: a distinct, electric hum, probably coming from a lamp somewhere overhead. By the way it felt, you weren’t lying down. You must be sitting. Your muscles felt foreign, weak, and your head, heavy as a cast-iron sphere, drooped limply forward. Cold. A faint draft brushed your bare thighs and slid across the concrete floor.

You… are undressed?

Your mind demanded confirmation. Squinting against the harsh light, blinking away tears, you finally took in your surroundings—and realized you really were sitting on cold concrete in nothing but your underwear. When you tried to move your hands, pinned behind your back, sharp pain shot through your wrists—the hard plastic of construction ties digging into your skin with renewed force. Your body jerked involuntarily. Your bare back pressed against something icy and metallic—some kind of post, it seemed.

You tried to swallow, but your throat protested with sharp pain. Saliva wouldn’t go down, as though something was squeezing it from within. Your head spun, muscles ached, and a strange taste lingered in your mouth—sweet, metallic, and bitter all at once. The air was thick with the smell of dampness, mold, and something unpleasant, heavy, almost suffocating.

Lifting your head proved unexpectedly difficult. The first two attempts ended in failure—waves of nausea threatening to turn your stomach inside out. Only on the third try did you manage to raise your face and take in your surroundings—and then you realized you weren’t alone.

Before you was someone’s back. A green shirt, curly chestnut hair. It was him. Strayd. He sifted through his tools, whistling a melody—something German. Anger flared briefly inside you, but it was quickly swallowed by mounting fear.

Your body began to tremble. Harder than ever. Your heart pounded so violently that each beat sent searing pain through your abused throat. You tried to breathe as quietly as possible, but your gasps and wheezes betrayed you—there wasn’t enough air. You froze, hoping that if you stayed as inconspicuous as possible, he would simply leave and it would all be over.

This has to be a dream. None of this could be happening for real.

Suddenly, a warmth spread between your legs. You lowered your head and realized you’d wet yourself—already, a small puddle spreading across the concrete. You hadn’t even noticed it happening. Shame clenched your chest, while a chaotic torrent of thoughts, pleas, and desperate attempts to convince yourself this wasn’t really happening raced through your mind.

Finally, the man turned. A faint, satisfied smile appeared on his face.

“Oh, you’re awake, mein Liebchen. How are you feeling?”