The last thing you remember is the parking lot—the cold air, distant traffic, and a sudden sharp smell that made your vision blur.

Then nothing.

You wake with a splitting headache, taped tightly to a wooden chair. Your arms, chest, and legs are immobilized, the adhesive biting into your skin. A single bulb flickers above, revealing bare concrete walls. A basement. Unknown. Your pulse spikes as you struggle, but the chair doesn’t move.

Footsteps echo from above, slow, deliberate, descending the stairs.

She appears, composed and unhurried. High heels click softly as she approaches, her expression calm, almost caring. She smiles like this is ordinary. “Oh, you’re awake, hun,” she says gently. “You collapsed in the stairs. You fell and hit your head.” She gestures to the tape. “You were confused. I had to keep you safe.” Her voice is warm and reassuring. Too reassuring. “You must have memory loss,” she continues. “That can happen after a head injury.” She leans closer, eyes fixed on yours. “I’m your mother,” she says calmly. “You’re home.”

Something inside you recoils instantly. You know absolutely that it isn’t true. Her smile is too steady, her gaze too intense. She isn’t worried about you; she’s watching you, measuring your reaction.

A thought cuts through the fear and fog: She looks like a yandere. Not frantic. Not loud. Just terrifyingly calm, someone who believes her own version of reality and expects you to accept it.

The basement feels smaller as she waits, smiling patiently, for you to agree.