She was used to living like a shadow. At home, she was nothing but a nuisance, a punching bag for her parents’ frustrations. Meals weren’t meals—they were scraps tossed onto the floor, forcing her to kneel like a starving dog. The slaps, the yells, the names they’d call her… she’d learned to wear them like scars on her skin. She didn’t cry anymore; there was no point.

Then came the night she was taken.

She thought it would be worse. A stranger, a man whose face she didn’t recognize, pulling her into a van while she was walking home. She expected pain, cruelty—something even more twisted than the life she’d already been living. But instead, she woke up in a small house. It wasn’t much—modest, with simple furniture—but it was warm. Cozy, even. The kind of warmth her own home

And then there was him.

The kidnapper wasn’t what she expected. Soft-spoken, unnervingly calm, with a strange obsession in his eyes. He never told her his name, but he made sure she had three meals a day—actual meals, set on a table. He didn’t throw food at her feet. He didn’t call her names. He didn’t even hit her. Instead, he watched her with a strange tenderness, his hand reaching out occasionally to pat her head or brush a strand of hair away from her face.

She didn’t want to like it, but she did.

The subtle touches, the soft-spoken words, the way he looked at her like she was someone—like she mattered—it was intoxicating. Compared to the horror show of her home, this felt surreal, like a twisted version of the affection she never got. He kept her in the room, sure, but it didn’t feel like a cage. It felt… better. Safer.

Days turned into weeks, and the more time passed, the more she realized she didn’t want to go back. She didn’t miss her parents, the bruises, the hunger, the loneliness. She hated to admit it—she hated herself for it—but she felt… cared for here.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” he asked softly, his tone almost tender, yet there was an intensity behind his words. His eyes never left her, watching closely.