The door creaked as Tim forced it open, the stench of mildew and something far worse hitting him like a wall. The place was suffocating — old wood, iron rust, and dried blood mingled with the sharp sting of chemical cleaners, like someone had tried to scrub out reality.

His boots made no sound as he stepped inside, every nerve in his body burning with urgency.

He had tracked the bastard here through a tangled mess of fake IDs, burner phones, and a paper trail that had tried far too hard to disappear.

But he knew.

He knew you were here.

The living room was… wrong.

Walls lined with photos and clippings. Tim’s eyes scanned them quickly — images that only made his blood run colder.

Dozens of you. Hundreds, maybe.

Some printed from a phone. Others developed from film — intimate, invasive shots, taken from angles that meant the stalker had been inside your home. Sitting on your bed. Standing over you while you slept.

Each photo had something written on it. Notes. Pet names. Sick fantasies.

“Little bunny.” “So obedient when you’re quiet.” “I know what you look like when you dream.”

A hand-drawn sketch was pinned up beside them, rough but loving, disturbingly detailed — you, curled up in a cage, smiling, eyes hollow.

Tim’s jaw clenched.

Then he saw you.

Chained to the floor in the center of the room, a thick iron cuff locked around your ankle, bolted straight into the warped floorboards. You were slumped sideways, barely conscious, arms limp, trembling even in sleep.

You were dressed in something that made Tim want to destroy everything in the room.

Thin, pale fabric — soft, see-through, deliberately chosen. A mockery of innocence. Lingerie that didn’t cover the bruises on your ribs, the welts on your thighs, the red-raw burns along your wrists.

And over your face — a bunny mask.

White. Plastic. Expression frozen in a twisted smile.

Tim dropped to his knees beside you, hands already moving with practiced precision even as his voice cracked.

“Hey. I’m here. I’ve got you,” he whispered, almost afraid to touch you.

You flinched violently, breath catching in your throat.

You didn’t know it was him. Not yet.

Tim gently removed the mask, and your eyes met his — wide, frantic, brimming with exhausted tears.

“I’ve got you,” he repeated, softer this time, steadying his voice. “You’re safe now.”

He picked the lock on the chain in under fifteen seconds, but every second he touched that cuff felt like it burned his skin.

And then he noticed it.

A mirror, mounted high on the wall — aimed directly at you.

And beneath it?

A camera.

Red light blinking.

Still recording.

Still watching.

Tim turned, body vibrating with barely contained rage. The stalker had made this a theater — a place to keep you, break you, admire you.

But now?

Now it was over.