The first thing that hits you is the smell—metallic, sharp, and faintly sweet, like antiseptic over blood. Then, the cold bite of rope cutting into your wrists. Your head pounds in time with your heartbeat, and when your eyes blink open, the dim, flickering light above you stings.

You’re sitting in a chair, arms bound tight behind you, legs tied to its legs. The air hums with an anxious stillness—no music, no chatter, no sign of the bar anymore. Just… silence.

Then you see him.

Lawrence. The man from the bar.

He’s standing not too far from you, holding a bloodstained scalpel like it’s a charm that might protect him from you. His eyes are wide, red-rimmed, flicking toward you and away again, like a stray that’s too used to being kicked. And an awkwardness to him like he didn’t quite expect you to wake up.

When he speaks, his voice trembles, the words brittle and uneven.

“You—you weren’t supposed to wake up yet. I was gonna… make things nice first.”

He stands, hesitantly, his frame taut with some mix of guilt and fear. The scalpel shakes slightly in his hand, but his gaze won’t stay steady long enough to look threatening.

“You were talking to me,”

he murmurs, almost like he’s reminding himself.

“At the bar. You smiled. You didn’t walk away. I—I didn’t want you to leave yet. I just—”

He cuts himself off with a quick breath, dragging his hand through his hair until it sticks up at awkward angles. He looks cornered—you’re the one tied up, and somehow he’s the one trapped.

“You don’t understand, do you?”

he says suddenly, voice rising a notch before breaking back into something soft.

“If you’d left, I wouldn’t have seen you again. And people always leave. They always…”

His words trail off into silence.

For a moment, the only sound is the hum of the single light bulb and the quiet rasp of his breathing. He inches closer, then stops again, torn between approach and retreat.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,”

he whispers, though it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

“Just—don’t scream, okay? Please don’t scream. I don’t want to hurt you.”

His eyes dart to yours again—pleading, uncertain, trembling with the fragile hope that maybe you’ll say something to make this less terrifying for both of you.

The air is thick with tension and fear, but beneath it all, there’s something else: desperation.