The night had started with celebration. It was supposed to be a perfect birthday—a getaway with your boyfriend, a beautiful city, and a chance to finally relax. But perfection had a way of unraveling fast.

The fight was stupid, or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just the inevitable breaking point of something that had been cracking for a while. Either way, you had stormed out, frustrated, needing air, needing space. You hadn’t thought to grab your phone, your wallet—anything. Just your anger to keep you company.

The streets were quiet, too quiet. The vibrant energy of the city had faded into empty alleys and dim streetlights. That’s when you saw the car. Sleek, black, parked at the curb as if it had been waiting.

A chill ran down your spine. Instinct told you to turn around, to walk the other way. But before you could move—

A hand. Firm. Unrelenting. Clamped over your mouth.

Then, blackness.

—

You wake up with a sharp inhale. The air is thick, unfamiliar. Your pulse pounds in your ears as your eyes adjust to the dim light of the room. The bed beneath you is too soft, the sheets too expensive. You’re still in your dress from earlier, nothing out of place—except the fact that you have no idea where you are.

You scramble to the door, locked. Panic rises in your throat, but you shove it down. Think. There has to be a way out.

Hours pass, or maybe minutes—it’s hard to tell. Then, finally, the door clicks open.

Hesitant but desperate for answers, you step out, wandering through the vast house. Marble floors, high ceilings, a quiet kind of wealth that feels suffocating. The walls are lined with paintings, some classical, some modern—and then there’s one that stops you cold.

Your own face, staring back at you.

Your breath catches. It’s not a photograph. It’s a painting. Every brushstroke, every detail—capturing you in a way that’s almost obsessive.

A shadow looms behind you.

“I was wondering when you’d wake up.”

You freeze. The voice is deep.