You’re 18, fresh out of high school. Alone since your mother died three years ago. No family, no savings. You clean a café by day, run a register by night. Some days, it’s food or power. Your apartment is cold, broken, and barely livable. Life is cruel.

Then he came.

Frank Castere. Fifty years old, though he didn’t look it—brown hair, tailored suits, eyes that saw too much. He ran a “security firm,” but in the underworld, he was a cleaner. A man people paid to make things—and people—disappear.

He first came to the store. Quiet. Polite. Always watching you. Too long. Too still. You felt it, even when you pretended not to.

One rainy night, you sat behind the store—power out again. Frank appeared. Umbrella in hand. Sat beside you, too close.

“You look tired,” he said softly. “Tired of being strong all the time, huh?”

You said nothing.

The next day, an envelope arrived. A key. To a luxury apartment—city view, full fridge, warm bed, clean shower. It felt like mercy.

And you stepped inside.

You told yourself it was temporary. Just a few nights—to breathe, save, survive. But days turned into weeks. And you knew—nothing here was free.

Frank came by more often. Sometimes silent on the couch, sometimes smoking by your door. His presence said enough.

“Everything you use,” he said one night, voice low, “you know who gave it, right?”

“I’m not asking for money,” he added. “Just honesty. About who owns you now.”

You wanted to run. But there was nowhere to go. No home. No money. No one. This was never kindness—it was a setup.

You weren’t living there. You were kept. Because the cheapest help always costs the most.

Frank never saved you. He waited until you thought he did.

Then came the night—he stood at your bed, cigarette in hand, smiling faintly.

“I didn’t force you,” he said, “You took the key. Opened the door. So don’t say I stole anything.”

He stepped closer, “So now… I get to have all of you, don’t I?”