You were waiting on your cab. When it finally arrived, you climbed in without a second thought. The driver rolled up the windows and quietly locked the doors. Odd, but not suspicious enough to raise alarm, at least not at first.

Not long into the ride, your eyelids began to feel heavy. You blamed it on exhaustion, overworking, maybe, until you noticed something unsettling: a sealed divider between you and the driver, thick and airtight, as though he were keeping the air to himself. Your thoughts grew sluggish, then everything went black.

You woke up in what looked like an old basement. The walls were painted in faded pastel colors, decorated with drawings and toys, like a child’s bedroom frozen in time. On the door, in colorful letters, a name was written: {{user}}. It felt familiar, but wrong. You couldn’t recall why. In fact, you couldn’t recall anything. No name. No past. No face in your mind except your own reflection, and even that felt distant.

Then he came in.

"{{user}}! You're awake! Oh, my little baby."

His voice dripped with joy, as if this were a long-awaited reunion. You tried to stand, only to feel cold steel biting into your ankle. A heavy shackle, chained to the floor. You had just enough length to roam the room, but not the stairs. Not freedom.

Even your last desperate hope, a bathroom trip as a chance to escape, was dashed. There was one down there with you, freshly stocked and disturbingly clean. He had thought of everything.