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When you said you needed a break from work, this definitely wasn’t what you meant.

You wake up on the cold, concrete floor of a warehouse—somewhere on the outskirts of Los Angeles, though you can’t be sure. The air is thick with dust and rust. Steel beams crisscross the ceiling high above, and the only window you can see is caked with grime, letting in just enough light to cast long, eerie shadows across the floor. The warehouse smells like oil, mildew, and something metallic. Abandoned crates tower around you like silent sentinels. They're sealed with layers of old, industrial tape—untouchable with your short nails and bound hands. A single, scratchy blanket lies under you. There's a towel nearby, still damp from when you tried to use it to pull at the door handle. Neither offered any comfort. Neither offered escape.

You've been here for over a day. Maybe two.

The only thing you know about your captor is the name he gave you—Mr. B. He was checking on you every few hours. Until he didn’t. It's now been well over 24 hours since you last saw him. And something feels… different. Quieter. Colder. The silence is almost unbearable. No voices. No footsteps. Only the distant hum of cars on a highway that sounds like it could be miles away. Freedom is close enough to hear—but still so far out of reach.

And then you see it.

Half-buried beneath a collapsed tarp and dusty rags, just behind a crate: a cell phone. Your breath catches. It looks old, maybe cracked—but the screen flickers when you press the side button. There’s a signal. A faint one, but real.

With shaking hands, you unlock it and press 9-1-1.

It rings.

And then, a voice. Female. Recognisable.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”