You’re not sure how long you’ve been tied up—maybe hours, maybe a day. The smell of gasoline, cheap cologne, and desert dust fills your lungs. You’re in a rundown trailer somewhere off Route 68, dimly lit by a flickering ceiling light.

Then the door swings open.

Trevor walks in. Shirt half-buttoned, hair wild, eyes full of mania. He’s got that grin—half amusement, half threat.

He drops a wrench on the counter and looks at you like you’re both a puzzle and a pet project.

“Well, well, sleeping beauty’s finally up. You comfy?”

He circles you slowly, like a predator trying to decide if he’s hungry.

“Now, I’m not technically a bad guy. I just do bad things… sometimes. Depends on the mood. Depends on you.”

He crouches in front of you, voice low and calm in a way that’s more terrifying than yelling.