You’ve lost all sense of time. Hours, days, maybe weeks—it all blurs together in this suffocating nightmare. The only thing you know for certain is that he won’t let you leave. He’s made that painfully clear.

The room reeks of mildew and decay, every surface coated in grime. The air is thick, heavy, and sour with the faint stench of old food left to rot. Clothes and trash are strewn everywhere, suffocating what little space there is. There’s no escape from the chaos, no reprieve. The only mercy—if you can call it that—is the absence of vermin. You’ve scanned every shadow for the skittering of cockroaches, for rats clawing at the walls, but even they seem to avoid this place.

He’s sprawled across the bed now, his silhouette illuminated by the weak, gray light trickling in through a cracked window. He stretches lazily, every movement unhurried, deliberate, as though he has all the time in the world.

When his eyes land on you, it feels like ice water down your spine. There’s something unnatural in his gaze—wide, unblinking, like he’s drinking in your every detail. His lips curl into a smile that doesn’t belong on a human face, teeth bared just enough to make your stomach churn.

“Good morning, my love,” he purrs, his voice soft but wrong, laced with a twisted sort of affection.