When Allen's eyes opened again, he was no longer in the darkened hallway.
He was lying on cold stone, his body aching, the taste of copper thick in his mouth. Somewhere nearby, water dripped steadily, echoing in the hollow space like a metronome counting down to something inevitable. His wrists burned—when he moved, the sharp bite of rope cut deeper into his skin.
It took him a moment to realize he was in a basement.
The walls were old brick, slick with moisture, the air thick with mildew and something fouler beneath it—an iron scent that turned his stomach. Against the far wall stood a battered wooden table. On it lay… things. Metal. Blades. Hooks. A saw whose teeth gleamed even in the dim light of the single bulb swaying overhead.
And there, beside the table, leaning against the wall with one boot crossed over the other, was Damien Smith.
Allen knew the name before the man even spoke.
He'd seen him once, months ago—standing beside Catherine outside a café, the two of them speaking in low tones, their faces close in a way that struck Allen as too intimate. At the time, Catherine had laughed off his jealousy. "A friend from work," she'd said. "You're reading too much into it."
But seeing Damien now, in this place, Allen knew his instincts had been right all along.
"You're awake," Damien said, his voice deep and unhurried. He took a step forward, the light catching his eyes—grey, like storm clouds over steel. "Good. I was worried I'd hit you too hard."
Allen's jaw tightened. "Where is she?"
Damien smiled faintly, as though Allen's question was a child's game. "Which part of her?"
The words slid under Allen's skin like ice. His pulse hammered in his ears. "If you've hurt her—"
"Hurt her?" Damien chuckled, shaking his head. "Allen, you really don't understand. Catherine was never yours to begin with. She's been mine for a long time. Long before you came along."
"That's a lie."
"Is it?" Damien stepped closer, the swaying light throwing long shadows across his face. "She told me everything about you. How you watch her when she sleeps. How you get suspicious if she's late from work. How your hands shake when you're angry. She said it was… intoxicating."
Allen's breath quickened—not from fear, but from rage. "You're trying to twist this. You—"
Damien raised a hand, silencing him. "You think this is about jealousy? About some petty love triangle? No, Allen. Catherine and I share something you couldn't begin to understand. She wanted you out of the way. I'm simply granting her wish."
The words hit Allen harder than any blow could.
"Why?" His voice was raw. "Why would she—"
A faint sound cut through his question—a muffled sob, somewhere beyond the basement door.
Allen's head jerked toward it. "Catherine!"
Damien's smile widened. "Ah. You're still hoping. That's good. Hope makes the fall so much sweeter." He reached into his coat and pulled something out—a small, bloodstained silk scarf. Catherine's. The same one she wore the day she disappeared.
Allen's chest constricted. He remembered the scent of her perfume lingering on that scarf. The way she'd wrapped it around her neck on cold mornings. Now it was stiff with dried blood.
"You're sick," Allen spat.
"Maybe," Damien said, shrugging. "Or maybe I'm just honest about what I want." He tossed the scarf onto the table, where it landed beside a long, curved blade. "Do you know what Catherine told me the night she came to me? She said you loved her, but you didn't see her. Not really. She wanted someone who could strip her down to her bones and still find beauty there. And I… well, I obliged."
The images his words conjured made Allen's stomach churn. "You think love is—"
"Love?" Damien's laugh was sharp. "This isn't love, Allen. This is truth. The truth is, people want to be owned, consumed. They want someone who will take them apart piece by piece and keep every part. You were too gentle. She craved more."
Allen pulled at the ropes binding him, ignoring the sting as the fibers cut deeper into his skin. "If you've hurt her, I swear—"
"You'll what?" Damien stepped closer, crouching so their faces were inches apart. His breath smelled faintly of smoke and iron. "You can't protect her. You never could. But don't worry—when I'm finished, I'll let you see her again. All of her."
A key turned in the lock behind him.
The basement door creaked open. A shadow moved in the gap, and then she stepped inside.
Catherine.
Her hair was loose, tangled, her skin pale under the swaying light. She was wearing the same red dress she'd worn the night she vanished. The hem was torn, the fabric smeared with something dark.
Allen's heart surged. "Catherine—"
But her eyes… they were not the eyes he remembered. No warmth. No fear. Just a calm, cold glint that sent a shiver through him.
She crossed the floor slowly, her gaze never leaving his. Then she stopped beside Damien, resting a hand lightly on his arm.
"Allen," she said softly. "You should have stayed away."
The words struck him harder than Damien's fists ever could have.
Before he could speak, Damien rose, his hand settling over Catherine's like it belonged there.
Allen stared at them both, the truth settling in his gut like a stone—this wasn't just betrayal. This was conspiracy. Catherine hadn't been taken. She had chosen this.
And now, bound in the cold belly of the town's forgotten underbelly, Allen understood: love was not what had brought him here. Love had been the bait.