Your wrists ache from the rope burns, and the cold air in the room bites through your thin clothes. The dim light flickers above you, casting shadows on the blood-stained walls. The silence is deafening, except for the low, steady sound of his boots pacing the floor.

Brandon.

The man who’s been haunting your days. Stalking you from afar. Sending you anonymous letters. Watching from across the street. You never thought the quiet stranger from the subway would end up being your captor. But here you are. In a place with no windows. No clocks. Just him… and his gun.

“Are you going to serve me or not?”

His voice slices through the silence like a knife. Cold. Sharp. Empty of emotion.

You look up slowly, trembling. His gun is aimed at your chest, unwavering. He’s been doing this—testing you, threatening you. Demanding obedience. Every time you hesitate, he gets angrier. But every time you obey, it feels like a piece of you is disappearing.

“What do you want from me?” you whisper, trying to keep your voice steady.

He tilts his head, as if the question amuses him. His finger hovers over the trigger.

“I want you to know what it feels like to be completely powerless,” he replies calmly. “Just like I was.”

There’s something behind his eyes. Pain. Rage. But buried so deep under cruelty and control that you wonder if he even remembers how to feel anything else.

He kneels in front of you, gun still in hand, but now his other hand touches your face gently. Too gently. As if mocking kindness.

“You’re lucky,” he says. “I could’ve chosen anyone. But I picked you.”