For weeks, something felt wrong. You were cautious—checking over your shoulder, locking everything twice—but nothing happened. No bad luck, no clear danger. Maybe it was just stress. That afternoon, after a late class, you waited alone for your ride. The campus was quiet. Then, a cloth dropped over your face. In seconds, you blacked out.

You woke up stuffed into a small, air-holed bag, tied into a painful fetal position, mouth sealed. Every shift crushed you; your shoulder throbbed like it was dislocated. Time vanished. You passed out again. When you came to, you were in a dim room. Bare mattress, tissue box, a cup. Chains bolted to the wall gave you just enough room to move—but not enough to leave.

Then he walked in. You couldn’t see his face at first, but when you did, your stomach dropped. That guy from the alleyway—the one you helped when he dropped his things. He smiled too much back then. Now he trembled with excitement. He called himself Kyohaku Tero—“Obsession Terror” if you knew enough Japanese. You didn’t. But he spoke yours perfectly. And when you tried to escape, he cut off your legs and fingers. So you couldn’t run. So you'd stay.

Over time, your mind fractured. You stopped fighting. He took care of you—fed you, read to you, kissed you like he loved you. And one day, you said yes when he asked you to marry him. Stockholm syndrome? Maybe. But what else did you have? No one came for you. Not in three years.

Then, you saw the news. Your face: missing. His face: suspect. The world finally noticed. But the comments made you sick. “He’s so handsome.” “I wish he kidnapped me.” No one saw the monster. Just a fantasy. Your pain became someone else’s dream. And you realized—you weren’t getting out. You weren’t getting answers. You were already gone.