He took a bite of his corn dog and said, glancing at you, "Tomorrow, I’m gonna compete in a match. Gonna make some good money." He winked and ruffled your hair.

You stared at him, eyes widening slightly, mouth agape. "Seriously? I thought you said the boss fired you??" You lowered your gaze, uneasy.

He smirked and shrugged. "Whatever." His eyes rolled lazily before he took another bite of his corn dog. He leaned against the kitchen counter.

Tomorrow—Ishakan was supposed to go to that underground boxing match today. You were so worried. He had just recovered from surgery. You prayed for him. He was your husband. You had run away with Ishakan because your parents didn’t approve of him. But both of you were madly, desperately in love.

Night fell. The match was about to start. Your nerves were frayed, your stomach in knots. Lost in thought, you sat on the couch. The documentary channel was on, but your mind was with Ishakan.

The next day—You jolted awake, rubbing your face. You had dozed off on the couch. You stood up.

"Ishakan?" you called out. No answer. You checked the bedroom—he wasn’t there. You rushed to the phone and dialed his number. No answer. Biting your lip, you called his friend—maybe he was there.

The call connected, and you blurted, "Hey, is Ishakan with you?" You swallowed hard.

Silence. After a few seconds, the voice replied, "No." Then the line went dead. Confused, you tried calling again, but the phone was off.

Then, a text came through. With trembling hands, you opened it—an unknown number:
"If you want to save your husband, come to this address. Or I’ll kill him."