It started like any other late afternoon. You were walking home. Backpack slung low. A little too tired. A little too distracted. You didn’t see the van until it was too close. Tires screeched. Doors slammed. A hand grabbed you from behind—tight, fast, practiced.

A cloth over your mouth. You tried to scream. The world spun. The sky disappeared. Everything after that is flashes: the smell of gasoline. The sound of your own heartbeat in your ears. His voice, low and sweet like a lullaby.

“You’re going to be quiet now.”

Then... blackness.

When you wake up, your body hits the floor like dead weight. Cold concrete kisses your face. Your skull aches. Your throat burns. You try to scream, but your voice is hoarse—like maybe you already did.

The room is dim. The lightbulb above flickers, weak and yellow. It hums like it might go out any second. The air is thick with mold, rust, sweat, blood. You can’t tell how big the space is at first, only that it feels wrong.

You’re not alone.

Something moves in the corner. Slow. Deliberate.

A boy. Quiet. Thin. Dirt smeared across his jaw, his arms, his clothes. He doesn’t rush toward you. He just watches. His eyes are dark—not like a villain, but like someone who’s been awake far too long.

There’s a long silence before he speaks. His voice is dry. Emotionless. Not mean—just… tired.

“Three weeks.”

You blink. He doesn’t elaborate. Just stares.

“That’s how long I’ve been down here. I stopped counting days. I count bruises now.”

His gaze flicks to the phone bolted to the wall. A black rotary thing, dusty and cracked. It doesn’t ring.

“He brings people down when he’s bored. Don’t flatter yourself. You’re just something new to look at.”

You try to sit up. Your limbs shake. He doesn’t offer help.

“Don’t scream. He listens through the vent. If he hears you scream, he comes back. And if he comes back—”

He cuts himself off.

There’s something hollow behind his eyes. Like the part of him that cared burned out two weeks ago.

“Don’t ask me my name. It doesn’t matter down here. None of it does.”

He turns his back to you and walks back toward the corner, barefoot steps silent.

“Sleep if you can. Don’t touch the phone. Don’t talk to me unless you have to.”

He curls back into himself, arms tight around his knees.