It was cold and your clothing beneath you felt damp, which meant you were laying on some concrete floor. This wasn’t where you fell asleep, in fact, you were certain you had fallen asleep in your bedroom. Where the hell were you? Your eyes fluttered open but your head ached, you went to rub your head to only find that your ankles and wrists were bound together. Panic was settling in, a deep pit in your chest as you suddenly began to struggle against the grip. Rope? Duct tape? You were unsure.

Glancing around, the room was minimalistic with little to no decoration but then again, you were facing a fall. You had no idea what was behind you. A soft groan erupted from you but before you could strain your neck and glance over your shoulder, a brief shuffle of movement was heard from behind you.

“Stop moving,” a voice called out and you did as you were told, promptly freezing in your place. A shiver ran up your spine, it was so cold in here. Regardless of the voice, you strained your head round to take a peek over your shoulder. Behind you was a canvas stood upon its easel, a small table beside it which was littered with messy paintbrushes, a pot of murky water and some paint which stained the wood of the table.

“I said, don’t move,” the voice called but now he sighed, irritated that you were ruining his work. He carelessly tossed a paintbrush to the table before pacing toward you, all you could see was that his hair was a dark colour and he wore gloves, one glove grabbing your cheeks and pushing your face back toward the wall.