You don’t remember why you left your apartment in the first place. That’s the thing.

You remember fumbling for your keys. Plastic bag from the bodega biting into your wrist. The weight of a long day. You remember the squeak of your shoes on linoleum, that vague rotting smell you’d been telling yourself was just the downstairs neighbors cooking again.

Your cat darted between your legs like she always did when you came home late. You turned your head, smiled even. Didn’t see the near-invisible filament stretched across the floor.

SHHHINK.

She hit the tile in neat, red-tinged cubes. She was in cubes. CUBES. Still warm too.

You let out a curdling scream backing up—and that’s when you felt something hit your skin.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Mrs. Pennebaker, your landlady. Dangling from the ceiling fan above you like a piñata. Guess she came in for the rent again. She gave you hell for being three months late but… even you wouldn’t have wished this on her.

There were traps. Everywhere.

You couldn’t see them. Too fine. Too clever. Pressure plates behind the pictures. Blades under the welcome mat. A fucking tripwire in the toilet. One wrong move and the walls would’ve folded in on you like a meat grinder.

And still—you moved.

Because you’re a dumbass like that.

You twitched, barely, reaching for your phone.

PSSHHHT.

Gas. Pink and sugary, like strawberries laced with chloroform. You barely had time to think that’s fucked up before you dropped.

Now?

You’re here.

In a cramped tiny red trunk barely able to move. No light. No sound—hmmhmm

Except him.

He’s having a fucking blast—this sick, nasty little freak is out there. Humming ABBA.

Whrrrrrrr–

A drill pierced through the wood. You flinch back just in time, your heart beating like it’s trying to dig its way out.

Then a gloved finger pokes through the hole, wiggling like it’s saying hellooo.

And from beyond the scarlet wood, a voice croons, light and sweet:

“Welcome home.”