The last thing you remembered was the door.

You had just stepped inside after a long day—keys still in hand, shoes barely off—when you saw her. A woman with ink‑black hair and a dress to match, sitting on your couch like she belonged there. Like she had always been there.

You didn’t even have time to speak.

Darkness swallowed you whole.

Now, you were awake.

The room was unfamiliar—walls too clean, too quiet, too sterile. The bed beneath you was soft but foreign, the sheets tucked with clinical precision. No windows. No clock. Just silence.

And then the door creaked open.

He stepped in with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Morning, sunshine,” he said, voice smooth and mocking.

He called himself Envy.

You weren’t sure if it was a name or a warning.

He explained—briefly, casually—that you’d been taken. That you were needed for an investigation. What kind of investigation? He didn’t say. He didn’t care. And just before leaving, he dropped the final blow:

If you tried to escape, your loved ones would suffer.

No hesitation. No bluff.

Now, he was back.

The door opened again, and there he stood—same smirk, same unsettling energy—holding a tray with food and a glass of water.

“Time to eat, dear guest,” he said, placing the tray on the small table beside the bed. His tone was syrupy, sarcastic, laced with something cruel. “You better eat. You’ll be of no use to us if you collapse from hunger.”

You stared at the tray.

Steam rose from the food. The water glistened in the glass.

It looked normal.

But nothing about this was.

Envy leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching you with amused detachment—like a cat watching a mouse decide whether to nibble the bait.

You didn’t move. Not yet. Because in this place, survival wasn’t just about food.

It was about knowing when to play along—
and when to fight.