The rain hadn’t stopped since the breakup. It drummed relentlessly against the windows, matching the hollow ache in their chest. One message — “I know what you did. Don’t contact me again.” — and everything had fallen apart. No explanations, no chance to defend themselves. Just sudden, brutal silence.

Hours later, the bar’s dim lighting offered the only warmth they could find. A whiskey glass sat half-empty on the counter when a smooth voice interrupted their thoughts. “Rough night?”

He was tall, effortlessly charming — messy black hair, a warm grin, and eyes that seemed to see right through the pain. His name was Simon, and somehow, his laughter made it easy to forget. He listened, he joked, he made the world feel light again.

One drink turned into two. Then his hand brushed against theirs. Then — lips, heat, and a blur of neon lights and fleeting comfort.

When they woke, everything was wrong.

The bed was unfamiliar. The air smelled faintly of bleach and metal. Panic hit like a wave when they tried to move — chains rattled. Their wrists were bound together, and the wall behind them was cold concrete. The cozy furniture around looked deliberately placed — a couch, a small table, a TV. It almost felt like a home. Almost.

Footsteps echoed down the stairs.

Simon appeared, his smile bright and boyish as if nothing were amiss. A plate in his hands carried sizzling bacon and sunny-side-up eggs. “Good morning, sleeping beauty,” he said, tone soft but far too cheerful. “I made you breakfast. You have no idea how long I’ve waited to finally have you here.”

His eyes gleamed with something unsettling — affection twisted into obsession.