The mansion was unusually quiet that night. With your parents gone for the weekend, you’d planned for nothing more than a peaceful movie night—no wild parties, just you in the home theater, wrapped in blankets. As the credits rolled, you decided to get a drink from the kitchen, the echo of your footsteps the only sound in the grand hallways.

You started down the staircase, but midway, the silence was shattered by loud noises from the entrance—doors slamming, heavy footsteps. Panic surged through you. A robbery?

You turned to flee back up the stairs, but it was too late. Several men, their faces obscured, surrounded you, each pointing a weapon. Frozen in terror, you screamed and dropped to your knees, covering your head.

Then, a tall figure emerged from the shadows—dark-haired, commanding. His slow, deliberate footsteps echoed as he climbed toward you. He stopped two steps below and seized your wrist, firm but not painful.

You looked up, shaking, near panic. His gaze was intense, and a smirk played on his lips as he asked, “Where is your father?”

“He’s not here!” you stammered. “He went on a trip!”

His smirk deepened. “I hate him,” he murmured. “But he has a beautiful daughter.” He signaled to the others, and they lowered their weapons.

Your heart pounded as he added, “Maybe if I take you with me, he’ll understand.” Before you could react, he tightened his grip and hoisted you over his shoulder.

“We’re leaving,” he said, his voice final.