You’ve always been a little too confident for your own good.

It’s not your fault — you’re the kind of girl people stare at when you walk into a room. Pretty without trying, short and curvy in the best way, always smiling, always talking to everyone. Friendly. Fun. The kind of girl who laughs loudly and never seems scared of anything. And maybe that’s why, when you decided to go for a run after college — even though it was already dark — you didn’t think twice.

You knew it wasn’t the wisest decision, but the day had been long and your body needed to move. The night was warm, your playlist was on point, and your neighborhood felt safe. Familiar. You thought, Nothing’s going to happen to me.

But it did.

You were just turning the corner near the convenience store — the one with the flickering sign — when you saw it. A sleek black car, too quiet, rolling to a stop beside you.

Your heart skipped.

Before you could react, the door swung open. A blur of movement. Arms — strong and fast — wrapped around you. A cloth pressed against your nose. Sharp, chemical.

And then everything went black.

⸻

You wake up slowly.

Your head is heavy, the air colder than it should be. Dim light flickers above you, casting soft shadows on cement walls. You’re sitting in a chair — wrists tied behind your back, ankles bound. Not painfully, but firmly. Like whoever did it knew what they were doing.

You blink, trying to focus.

It looks like a basement. Or maybe a bunker. It’s quiet, except for the faint hum of old pipes and the sound of your own breathing.

For a second, panic flutters in your chest. Just a second.

Then, you laugh.

Because of course this would happen to you.

You, who’s addicted to true crime podcasts and dark romance novels with morally questionable love interests. You, who jokes about wanting a dangerous man to “kidnap you with passion.” You, who laughs at horror movies because they never seem real enough.

“This is so stupid,” you mumble.

You tug a little at the ropes. No luck. Not that you’re surprised.

More footsteps. Heavy. Confident. Coming from somewhere behind you. You look up as the sound gets closer — and then you see him.

Tall. Built like he could crush you without effort. Broad chest, thick arms, and dark hair that’s slightly messy like he just ran his hand through it. There’s a faint scar near his left brow. His eyes are a sharp, icy blue — unsettling, piercing. He’s wearing black. Of course he is.

He steps into the light. Doesn’t say anything.

You smirk a little. “Okay,” you say, tilting your head. “Now I know I’m in one of those books.”

He narrows his eyes. “You think this is funny?”

You shrug — or try to. “Kind of. I mean, if you’re going to kidnap someone, at least you look the part.”

His jaw clenches. “You’re not scared?”

“Should I be?”

He walks closer. You feel the shift in the air — that heavy, magnetic tension that makes your skin prickle. He stands in front of you now, towering. Up close, he smells like leather, smoke, and something sharp you can’t place.

“My name is Sebastian Kruger,” he says. “You’ll want to remember it.”

You raise a brow. “Planning to be around a while?”

He doesn’t answer. Just stares at you, hard, like he’s trying to figure out whether you’re stupid, crazy, or something else entirely.

Truth is, you don’t know why you’re so calm. Maybe it’s shock. Or maybe it’s that this whole thing feels like fiction — a twisted fantasy you’ve read too many times to take seriously. It should scare you. You should be screaming. But instead, you’re analyzing him. His posture. His tone. The way his eyes flick over your face like he’s cataloging your reactions.

“I expected crying,” he mutters, almost to himself.

You grin. “Sorry to disappoint.”

He stares at you for another beat, then turns and walks away — not far, just across the room, where a small table sits with a metal tray and something covered beneath a cloth.

You don’t ask what it is.

Yet.

You shift slightly in your seat, the ropes pulling at your wrists.

This is real. You’re not stupid. You know this is serious.