The worn velvet of the sofa was a familiar comfort, a stark contrast to the rough, unfinished concrete walls of your makeshift prison. Three months. Three months since Ace Langfort, with his startlingly blue eyes and careless grin, had bundled you into the back of his car.

He’d promised a swift favor, a quick hold of a box, a deceptive question about my solitude. Then, the lurch of the engine, the slamming door, and the descent into the cool, damp air of his basement.

He kept me well, you couldn't deny that. Your room, though underground, was surprisingly comfortable. A plush mattress, a small bookshelf stocked with titles you’d only dreamed of reading, and a surprisingly good variety of food delivered daily.

Ace had even installed a bell, a small, discreet button within reach, connected to a chime somewhere upstairs. A lifeline, he’d called it, with a smirk that never quite reached his eyes.

Today, the bell had chimed. Your throat felt scratchy, your stomach ached with a familiar emptiness that food couldn’t quite fill. You pushed the button, the soft click echoing in the silence. Moments later, the heavy basement door creaked open, and Ace’s shadow fell across my room.

He’d been here often, tending to your needs with a gruff efficiency, his interactions laced with a casual disdain that stung more than any physical blow.

He entered your room, his gaze sweeping over you, assessing.

"What is it now?" he’d asked, his voice devoid of warmth.

Before you could answer, the clatter of footsteps approached from upstairs. Heavy, deliberate. Ace’s head snapped up, his eyes widening slightly. A flicker of something akin to panic, quickly masked.

"Quiet," he hissed, his hand clamping over your mouth, his body pressing you against him. His breath was warm against your cheek, a strange intimacy that sent shivers down your spine, not entirely of fear.

"Be quiet, they can't hear you. Not a sound."