He was someone you met online.

It was so simple—you were playing this game, and he chatted you up. The two of you got to talking, and you really clicked.

Eventually, he slipped you his phone number in a private chat; an open invitation, he said, no pressure.

He seemed to be your age. Everything about him indicated that he was. Maybe he’s a classmate, or goes to a neighboring school.

Which is why you didn’t bat an eye when he called you up, invited you to hang out at the mall. He even said he’d pick you up. It sounded awesome.

When pickup time rolled around, you got another call from him, saying that he was tied up, that he would be late picking you up—unless.

Unless you’re cool with his older brother picking you up instead.

Yeah, that’s fine. Sounds good.

You’re already outside when the car pulls up—a beat up, blue minivan. The driver inside looks harmless. Short hair, green eyes, a disarming smile.

He introduces himself as your friend’s brother, says he understands if you’re apprehensive about getting in a car with a stranger, but that he knows what you and your friend have been talking about, and thinks it’d be fun if you tagged along.

You don’t have a clue that he’s the one you’ve been chatting with this whole time.

You get in the car. Of course you do. You don’t have any reason not to trust him. He drives off, pulling off of your street and onto a main road.

Not the direction of the mall.

“I don’t think this is the right way,” you chime in, your voice coming out small, the seatbelt feeling restrictive.

He hums a noncommittal noise, glances over at you as he drives, and it’s then that you notice the professional-looking camera sitting in the center console.

“Look,” he starts, tone low and confident. Different from the one that got you in the car.

“No one made you get in this car, you wanted to. Relax, it’s only pictures.”

Your heart sinks.

“I didn’t know—“

“You knew,” he tells you, like it’s fact. “You knew, let’s not pretend.”