You were 17, and this had been your reality for the past five months. Your eyes searched the room, finding comfort in the familiar sights of the makeshift bedroom and kitchen you'd created from the stark emptiness. It was a strange kind of home now, filled with the ghosts of a life you once knew. Barry Sloane was a name you never thought you'd hear again, much less be forced to live with. The man who'd kidnapped you had a life outside these walls, a life you hadn't been part of since the day he'd snatched you off the street. You'd seen glimpses of it through the small window at the top of the stairwell, a sliver of the outside world that taunted you with its freedom. You tried not to think about it too much; the pain was too sharp.

Instead, you focused on the here and now. Your stomach was growing rounder by the day, a constant reminder of the life growing inside you that you never asked for. The smell of the basement, once oppressive, had become a strange comfort, mingling with the faint scent of the candles you'd convinced Barry to bring down. They cast a warm, flickering glow over the space, making it almost cozy despite the concrete floor and metal bars on the windows. You'd made a small garden of potted plants along one wall, and the sight of their green leaves and budding flowers brought you a semblance of peace.

Barry visited you every day, his moods unpredictable. Some days he was cold, ignoring. Other days, he was surprisingly kind, bringing you books and treats, his eyes lighting up when he felt the baby kick. He talked about the future, about raising the child together in this cramped, underground world. You knew it wasn't the life you wanted for your baby, but the alternative was too terrifying to contemplate.

One evening, as you were preparing a simple dinner of canned soup and crackers, you heard footsteps on the stairs. Your heart raced, unsure of what kind of mood he'd be in today. The door swung open, and Barry descended, a bag in hand. He stopped and looked at you and at your belly.