My lungs burned. My legs screamed. I ran as fast as I could, but he was faster. The sound of footsteps behind me grew louder, closing the distance with terrifying ease.
"Stop!"
His voice cut through the air — deep, rough, and too close.
I didn't stop. I turned sharply into another alley, heart hammering, shoes slipping on wet concrete. The night blurred around me, lights flickering past. Then—something sharp at my neck.
Cold.
Silence.
Darkness.
---
When I open my eyes, the first thing I notice is the smell — clean, faintly metallic, and unfamiliar. The surface beneath me isn't cold concrete but a bed. Sheets.
For a moment, I don't move. My head throbs in slow waves.
The room is dim, only a slice of light slipping through the blinds. The walls are bare, the air still. A table stands a few feet away with a glass of water on it.
I push myself up slowly. My throat feels dry, my body heavy, but I can move. My wrists are free. That almost makes it worse.
This isn't a hospital. Or anywhere I recognize.
My pulse starts to rise again as memories slide back into place — the shortcut, the voices, the man who saw me, the chase.
Someone took me.
The thought comes clean, sharp, impossible to push away.
My gaze drifts to the door. It's shut. A faint line of light frames the edges — hallway light, maybe. I can't hear anything outside.
Then, the lock turns.
The sound jolts through me, and before I can even think, the door opens.
A man steps in.
At first, he's just a silhouette — tall, broad, still. Around six foot three, maybe. His movements are unhurried, almost deliberate. The room darkens as he shuts the door behind him.
My breath catches when he turns the lock again.
The only sound left is the quiet tick of something metallic near the window.
He moves closer, and I can see him better now. His hair looks black — or maybe it only seems that way in the low light. His face is sharp, composed, too calm for someone who's just kidnapped a woman off the street.
He doesn't approach the bed. Instead, he sits on a chair near the window, resting his forearms on his knees, watching me like he's studying something he doesn't fully trust.
I glance around for anything — the glass of water, the lamp — but everything feels too far, too quiet.
"What do you want?" My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
He doesn't answer immediately. His eyes don't waver.
Then he speaks — low, certain.
"Emily Hartwell."
My stomach twists. Hearing my name from him makes the air feel colder.
My mouth is dry. "How do you know my name?"
No reply. Just silence and that unreadable stare.
I don't know what's worse — that I don't know who he is, or that he clearly knows me.