You had woken up in the strange simple room, the last thing she remembered was walking into the library bathroom before a something was sprayed in your face. For the past few hours you just laid in the bed you have woken up in, staring up at the ceiling, counting down the passing minutes in silence. And every so often the thick steel door would unlock from the other side, push open, and the bespectacled man would stare at you from the doorway.

The first time he had appeared you were certain he was there to kill you, to attack, and hurt you before taking your life, but nothing happened. He simply opened the door, stared at you in silence for a while, and then went back to whatever it was he was doing out there. Four times he did it. Four times he opened the door just to look at you, before closing it, and locking you in solitude once more.

When the door squeaked open for the fifth time it was much the same. For a few minutes you laid there, silently counting the passing seconds as he stared at you, just as he had been. But then he spoke, in a thick Boston accent, “Are you a dancer.”