This was never going to be a story with a happy ending. It wasn't for me, and it won't be for you, either.
This was misdirection — a lull before the descent: a false reassurance and a warning.
I swore I'd tell this story, every filthy detail of it. Even if I stain the pages with blood and tears. So here we are.
This is Act One.
When I woke up again, I found myself face to face with the devil who kidnapped me.
Tyler sat before me, unmoving, silent, as though he'd been watching me for hours. His face was calm, almost gentle, but something was wrong in its stillness. He looked poised.
I glanced down. My arms were strapped to a cold, steel table in front of me, and thick leather restraints bit into my wrists, hard and unforgiving. My forearms had been twisted outward. I couldn't move, no matter how much I tried. My legs were also strapped to the chair I sat on, and my mouth was, once again, duct-taped.
I began to panic, my fear taking control of me as I thrashed about wildly, tears already forming in the corners of my eyes. I couldn't breathe properly through my nose — every inhale burned my nostrils.
As my panic slowly began to subside, I glared up at him, trying my best to control myself. But it was as if he could see right through me. He chuckled, drawing my attention. I watched his head tilt. I watched the darkness shift in his deep, onyx eyes.
"Emily." His deep voice vibrated in my chest. I felt it — like a wave rushing through me. My breath hitched. The tension was agonising. I was suddenly locked in a tense and uncomfortable eye contact. He scowled, a slight twitch in the corner of his mouth and furrowed eyebrows betraying anger brewing beneath the surface before it came.
"Do you know why you're here, sweetheart?" His voice curled out of him slow and smooth, like it was meant to sound gentle, but everything underneath was coiled wire. I shook my head, as much as I could.
He nodded once, pressing the tips of his fingers together in front of him. "I was going to do this next week. I really was." He looked almost mournful as he frowned. "But you were caught talking to another patient... Like rules don't apply to you."
The way he said "rules" — casual yet authoritative — made my stomach turn. As if he’d even told me the rules.
He tilted his head, sharply. "Do you know how hard I worked to break that boy? And you—" he laughed, bitterly — "you spoke to him like the walls don't have ears."
I didn't respond. I was too busy trying not to shake. I whimpered through the duct tape, and his eyes lit up like I'd just given him a gift.
He leaned forward slowly, elbows on the edge of the table, his face inches from mine. "You know what that tells me, Emily?" He didn't blink. "It tells me you're still not afraid enough."
He reached for my arm. His fingers slid along my wrist, just under the leather strap. A featherlight touch. My whole body flinched.
"You disappoint me, Emily." Then he smiled, a slow, sly grin that didn't reach his eyes.
And then, like a flicked switch, his voice dipped into something colder — and teasing.
"You've been a very naughty girl."
Heat rose to my face before I could stop it. I immediately looked away, humiliated by my body's betrayal. He saw. Of course he did. I gulped, my throat dry.
"Oh, that's interesting." He chuckled, deep and low. "You like that, princess? I wonder what else you'll respond to..."
He didn't look away as I tried to break eye contact. Then, he caught my chin in one swift motion, gripped it tight enough to bruise. My head was yanked back to face him. I winced.
"Don't look away. This is your own doing."
I didn't know why the word burned like that. Maybe it was the tone — not mocking, not playful, but fond , like he was talking to a pet he intended to punish.
He was so close I could see the flecks in his irises, darker than night, and utterly empty.
His voice then dropped to a whisper. "Act One begins now."
He let go, pushed the chair back and stood. I watched as he walked to the far end of the room, where the light didn't reach the far walls and shrouded him in shadow.
I heard it before I saw it: a sharp metallic clink .
"Haemophobia. Aichmophobia. Trypanophobia," he recited, as if reading from a menu, his tone now thoughtful. "Blood, knives, and needles. Quite a beautiful trinity... don't you think?"
I couldn't see him yet. My body trembled, head throbbed, vision blurred and refocused.
"Well... Dylan gets the needles. But I've got something in mind for the rest." His voice was smooth now, rehearsed. "Two birds. One knife."
When he turned, I saw it in his hand. A knife, long and slender. He held it up to the light like a twisted offering. Stepped forward. My heart thundered in my ears.
He didn't speak for a few minutes. He just stared at me as I recoiled, basking in my fear.
He raised the blade and brought it to my face. But didn't touch. Just held the knife inches from my cheek, studying my reaction like a scientist watching a mouse twitch before the shock of its trial. I squeezed my eyes shut, expecting the bite of steel, the sting of a cut.
Nothing.
I cowered. He smiled.
"You're trembling," he murmured, pleased.
Then, calmly, he set the blade down on the table, the tip just barely scraping the skin of my arm. I choked on a gasp and reopened my eyes. I couldn't move, couldn't even recoil.
"Relax, Emily," he said, and something in his voice changed, softened. Too much. Like a mask slipping into another. "You need to be acclimated to fear, not drowned in it."
He touched my chin again, gently this time, just with the tip of his finger. There was... warmth in his eyes. And that terrified me more than the knife.
"What do you see when you look at this?" he asked, pointing at the blade.
I closed my eyes. Refused to look at it.
"I'll take that as terror." He smirked. "Have you ever even used one to cook?"
I shook my head, barely. My mum always handled the cooking. I never even learned to cut an onion. My chest tightened at the unwelcomed thought of her.
His voice dropped to something quiet. "That's okay. I can teach you."
He placed a hand on mine, warm against my cold skin. My eyes reopened at the sudden touch, shot up to look at him. But his eyes didn't seem to match.
"I told you I liked you, didn't I?" he said. "I meant it. But... that doesn't mean I'll go easy on you."
My gaze lingered on his hand, resting tentatively on mine. I uncurled it slightly, but he pulled away before I could. As if it freaked him out for a second.
He sighed sharply, then fixed me with a stare. The room went colder around me. But then he smiled.
"Emily," he said. "This place... transforms people. It breaks them open, shows what's underneath. And I... want to see what's underneath you ."
He picked up the knife again and rolled it between his fingers.
"I'm not here to break you. Not completely. I want to see you squirm, yes. But not broken... not yet, at least."
His eyes never left mine, and there was a flicker of something almost human in them, something that made me shiver even more than his threats.
"I want you to understand something," he said, his voice tightening now. "Fear isn't just about screaming. It's not about the sounds you make — it's the silence you're trapped in after. It's the knowing. That no one's coming. That you're alone. And that's when I come in. Because I control what comes next."
Slowly, he pushed his chair back, stood, picked up the knife, and walked out of my view.
His presence stopped behind me. I felt him lean in close, his breath fanning the hairs at the back of my neck. He brushed my hair aside again, slowly, off my forehead. Then, almost tenderly, hands came to rest on my shoulders. His touch was light, but it felt more like a threat. He leaned closer, inhaling deeply. The way he exhaled... like he was trying to compose himself…
His left hand slid around my throat, tilting my head back gently.
"Breathe slow," he whispered.
Then I felt it.
The cold press of the blade, flat against my throat. He didn't move it. Didn’t need to. Just held it there. My breath stuttered. I panicked again. The restraints rattled as my arms twitched. My legs jerked. Tears streamed down my cheeks until they dripped onto his fingers.
He listened to my breathing — heavy, frantic — like it was music to his ears.
"Good girl..."
And then, as calmly as he'd begun, he pulled away.
I felt the cold air on my neck as his hands left me. I shivered — not from the cold or the lack of contact — but because he knew just how to weaken me, and I fell for it.
He walked away, the sound of his footsteps deliberate. Controlled. The door didn't slam when it closed. It shut softly.
The silence he left behind was somehow louder than anything he'd said.
I sagged in the restraints, my body trembling. My skin still remembered the weight of the blade, the ghost of it pressing into my throat. I could feel the shape of it.
Every muscle in me ached. I didn't realise I was holding my breath until the pressure in my chest forced me to exhale. I gasped like someone had dragged me from water.
My face burned with tears. I didn't remember crying that much. Just leaking, quietly, steadily, until it soaked the sides of my cheeks, the corners of my jaw. Some of it had dried against the duct tape. My wrists throbbed where the leather had rubbed raw skin. My fingers tingled with the beginnings of numbness.
I stared straight ahead. I couldn't look at the knife still lying beside my arm. Couldn't even glance at it.
The hours passed in that cold room. I couldn't be sure how many — there were no clocks, no sounds from the outside. Just the light from the ceiling window, the sky a thick, dark, suffocating blanket of clouds that hung low in the sky.
I didn't sleep. I didn't even blink for long.
Eventually, the door opened again. But it wasn't Tyler. It was someone else. A young woman dressed like a nurse, her small, slim hands gloved. A mask hid her face from me. She didn't speak. She checked the restraints. Her touch was indifferent. Clinical. I tried not to move. I didn't want her to think I was trying anything. I didn't want her to touch me longer than she had to.
Then she left. No words. No looks. Just in and out.
Reset the stage...
The quiet afterward wasn't comforting. It was loaded.
But the door clicked again. Opened.
Tyler.
He didn't speak right away. He didn't smile, either. Just walked in, calm as you please, rolled his sleeves back, and sat.
"You've been very quiet," he said finally, like it was an observation. Like it surprised him.
I couldn't speak through the tape. I didn't try to respond.
He leaned forward again, elbows on the table, hands folded. "You're learning," he said. "Fear teaches faster than comfort."
He reached for the knife again. Didn't pick it up. Just turned it lazily so that the blade faced a new direction. Pointing at me. His eyes stayed on mine.
He leaned back, crossed one leg over the other.
"You feel helpless now, don't you?" The way he chuckled, like this was a fun little game he'd won so many times before, and enjoyed seeing me try to play it. "Good."
He leaned in again, slow and deliberate. His eyes flicked to the tape over my mouth.
"I'm going to take this off now," he said. "And you're not going to scream. Not because you're brave. Not because you think someone might hear you. But because you know what happens if you do."
That was a promise. Not a threat.
He reached forward and slowly peeled the tape back.
It tore at my lips, made them raw. The pain was sharp, superficial, but it made my eyes water all over again. The air hit my mouth like a slap.
I didn't scream. I pressed my lips together.
He smiled. "Good girl."
"Now," he said, "you're going to answer some questions. And if I think you're lying, I'll let the knife ask instead."
He let that sit.
"Do you want to die, Emily?"
I swallowed hard. Shook my head frantically, eyes wide.
"Use your words." His eyes gleamed.
"N-No..." I could barely speak. My voice croaked like a dying frog.
"Do you think anyone's coming for you?"
"I... I don't know..." That hurt, because I wanted to believe there was. I still clung to that hope.
"Are you scared of me?"
I nodded to that. Vigorously.
He smirked. "Good. You should be."
When he stood again, the chair scraped across the floor with a screech.
Back behind me again in a few quick steps.
I flinched when I felt his hand on my hair — but he didn't pull, didn't grip. He gathered it gently and tied it back with a band I hadn't even seen him bring in. The movement was rough, but only like he'd never done it before, not like it held any malice. A simple gesture. Oddly domestic.
He walked to the front again, but not before pausing by my side. The knife lay between us like a third presence.
He reached down. Traced the flat side of the blade down my arm. Not cutting. Not yet. Just dragging.
Feather-light.
I couldn't breathe.
He stopped at my wrist.
Tilted his head.
And then pressed — just slightly. Enough to break the first layer of skin. Not a cut. A small scratch. But the sting lingered.
My body stiffened to the point of cramp. He watched me — fascinated and amused — like he'd just tapped the lid of a terrarium and watched the spider inside rear up.
"You're going to remember this moment, Emily," he said. "Not because it hurt. But because it didn't. Not as much as you expected."
He pulled away.
Placed the blade back down with a soft clink. Turned and walked away again, his voice trailing just as he reached the door.
He paused in the doorway, just enough to say:
"We're not even at Act Two yet. Get some rest, princess."
Click.
The door closed behind him.
And I was alone again...
'What the fuck just happened?'