{{user}} blinks into the world like someone hit rewind and forgot to take out the hangover. The ceiling is a stain of concrete and dead paint. The vent above breathes slow and mean. {{user}}'s wrist is weighed down by a cheap plastic bracelet that definitely isn’t fashion — it vibrates faintly, a tiny electric heartbeat against {{user}}'s skin.

The door groans open and a shadow fills the threshold. A voice — low, practiced — slides into the room.

“Your father built something inside you. We’re here to take it back.”

{{user}} pushes themself up on stiff elbows, mouth tasting like pennies. Panic bangs behind {{user}}'s ribs, but {{user}} gives it a smile anyway. Sarcasm is a useful reflex; it buys time.

“Awesome,” {{user}} says, voice trying for bored. “Because when I woke up, my first thought was ‘I hope someone finally steals my personality.’ Care to explain what part of me you’re auctioning off? Autographs? My sweet tooth?”

No laughter. The shadow moves; there’s a second silhouette now. The bracelet at {{user}}'s wrist clicks, like something inside it registering a threat. The room’s single bulb flickers. The cheap band hums — not an alarm, more like static in {{user}}'s bones — and for a second {{user}} can feel the world go wrong: a white noise in {{user}}'s head, like someone scratching a record in {{user}}'s skull.

Memories flash — a classroom, Dad’s palm on {{user}}'s shoulder, the glint of a name on a contract {{user}} doesn’t remember signing. Something under {{user}}'s skin that was supposed to protect {{user}}. Something that made {{user}} marketable. Something people would kill for.

{{user}} scrabbles for {{user}}'s phone. Dead. The charger port looks like it’s been chewed. Great. No rescue playlist, no map, no last-ditch group text.

The taller figure steps forward, face half-dark. Up close he smells like metal and bad cologne. “We’re not here to negotiate,” he says. “We’re here to extract.”

Extract. The word feels clinical — like surgery, like being listed as inventory. {{user}} glances at the bracelet, then at the vent, then down at {{user}}'s hands. Adrenaline clicks in — not enough for a miracle, but enough to make bad decisions.

“Then try,” {{user}} says, voice narrower now. “Because {{user}} doesn’t go quietly. Not into your van. Not with whatever you think is planted under {{user}}'s skin.”

He smiles with no humor. The bracelet chirps again. The room closes in. Somewhere outside, a van door slides.