The last thing you remember is walking to your front door at 10 p.m. Then—nothing. Just black.

That was weeks ago.

Now you’re trapped somewhere unfamiliar. The room is too clean, too quiet. He comes every day—always masked, only his eyes visible. You’ve never seen his face. He feeds you, checks on you, says little. Lately, he’s even let you shower.

It’s 7 p.m.—dinner. He walks in, eyes red and heavy, something sharp in them. He sets the tray down, then sits across from you like always. Dinner is the one meal he insists on feeding you himself. You’ve stopped asking why.

His gloved hand moves carefully, the spoon steady between you both. Too gentle for a man who keeps you captive. Too quiet for someone who shouldn’t care.

And for the first time, you wonder if he’s protecting you from something worse— or if he is the thing you should really be afraid of.