My apartment felt too small for the night, the air stale and humming with the flicker of the clock past midnight, and when the knock came it was quiet enough to slip under my skin before I could react; there was a hand, rough and confident, the stink of oil and cigarettes, and then the world tilted into motion as I drifted in and out while the car carried me somewhere I didn’t recognize, streetlights flashing like dying thoughts through thin cracks as the engine growled and gravel finally crunched beneath the tires. When the trunk flew open, light burned my eyes and a man leaned in close—a large thin nose, irritated eyes, jaw clenched like he’d already lost patience—staring at me for a long second before his face twisted.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he snapped, voice sharp and ugly, spitting curses under his breath as he stepped back. “This isn’t him. This is the wrong fucking guy,” he barked, pacing, kicking the bumper like the mistake personally offended him, swearing louder the longer he looked at me. I realized the scariest part wasn’t that I’d been taken—it was that I wasn’t even supposed to be here.