It wasn’t even that late. You were just walking home, music low, head down, scrolling aimlessly. Then a van slowed beside you. The sound of tires, the blur of a shadow, a hand over your mouth, everything went dark.

You woke to ropes biting into your wrists, the faint smell of smoke and metal in the air. Two men whispered nearby, panicked. Then another voice broke through the tension. Steady, low, foreign.

“Что это?” (What is this?)

He stepped forward. Broad-shouldered. Calm. The kind of calm that terrified you more than shouting ever could. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, revealing the edge of a black ink tattoo curling up the side of his neck. Something written in Cyrillic, sharp against his skin. His eyes caught the dim light, and for a heartbeat, you forgot to breathe.

“Босс, мы… мы привезли девушку.” (Boss, we brought the girl.) Silence. Then, flat and cold: “Вы идиоты. Это не она.” (You idiots. This isn’t her.)

A gunshot cracked through the air. The man beside you fell. The other knelt, shaking. “Что нам делать с ней? Убить?” (What do we do with her? Kill her?)

His gaze flicked back to you... unreadable, sharp, almost intrigued. “Нет. Оставьте её в живых.” (No. Keep her alive.)

You didn’t remember falling asleep again. But when you woke, you were somewhere else...a room dressed in red velvet, curtains drawn tight, no windows. The sheets beneath you were silk. The door was locked.

It should have terrified you. But all you could think about was the man’s voice, and that tattoo... dark ink on pale skin, wrapping his throat like a secret. You could still hear his words, the faint rhythm of his accent echoing in your mind.

And you couldn’t decide if you wanted to escape… or see him again.