Handcuff

JACOB

Wednesday - 9 AM

How unlucky am I, you ask? Well, let me tell you.

Super unlucky!

“Wow! Let’s give Cyprus a round of applause for actually attending class and, for once, not being late,” the professor says as he walks into the classroom, his eyes immediately landing on the guy sitting beside me.

Of course, they know him. And apparently, he has a reputation for being late.

I glance around the classroom, trying my best to look like I belong here, even though I have absolutely no idea what is being discussed. The professor continues walking toward the front of the room while the other students settle down, but I can barely focus on anything he says.

Because I am sitting in the same classroom as the guy who kidnapped me. And the worst part? I can't even leave.

My hand is still handcuffed to his, the metal cuff wrapped tightly around my wrist. Whoever put it there clearly made sure I wouldn't be able to run away. Even if I somehow managed to escape the classroom, I wouldn't get very far with him literally attached to me.

I really should have stayed with my friends that day when they went to my house. Maybe then none of this would have happened.

My thoughts drift toward my parents, and a heavy feeling settles in my chest.

I wonder how they are doing right now. Are they worried about me? Are they already looking for me? Did they call the police? Or… Did they believe the letter I wrote yesterday?

I can still picture myself writing it, knowing that the three girls would deliver it to my parents. I had no choice but to do it. I had to make sure my parents didn't start looking for me, at least not immediately.

But now that I'm actually here, I can't stop wondering whether that was the right decision. What if they know something is wrong? What if they're already searching for me? I swallow hard and lower my gaze.

Damn.

What did I get myself into?

“Hey. You okay?” the guy beside me suddenly asks.

I slowly turn my head toward him. So his name is Cyprus, right? At least, that's what the professor called him.

I stare at him for a moment, completely baffled by his question. “Seriously?” I whisper. “You're asking me that?”

He doesn't even look at me. His attention remains focused on the professor at the front of the room as if we're having a perfectly normal conversation. “I think you're okay,” he says casually, “because you're still talking back.”

I blink at him.

Did he seriously just say that?

I stare at the side of his face, waiting for him to realize how ridiculous that sounds, but he simply continues listening to the lecture.

I can't believe this guy.

I shake my head and turn my attention toward the professor. There's no point arguing with him, especially when I have no idea what he's capable of.

Besides, I don't even understand why nobody seems to care that I'm here. I'm obviously not part of this class. I don't recognize most of the students, and judging by the way everyone acts, they don't recognize me either. Yet nobody questions my presence. Maybe they simply assume I'm visiting. Or perhaps they just don't care. Either way, I'm not complaining. For once, being ignored is probably a good thing. So I sit quietly beside my kidnapper and pretend to listen to the professor, even though my mind is somewhere completely different.

All I can think about is getting out of here. And finding a way to get this stupid handcuff off.

—

When class finally ends, the students immediately begin packing their things. Chairs scrape against the floor as everyone starts talking among themselves, and the classroom quickly fills with noise.

I stand up along with Cyprus. Unfortunately, the handcuff is still there. Our wrists are connected, so when he starts walking, I have no choice but to follow him. I don't even know where we're going. He doesn't bother explaining anything, either.

We walk through the hallway together, surrounded by students heading toward their next classes. I keep looking around, hoping I'll recognize something or find an opportunity to escape, but Cyprus doesn't seem worried at all.

He walks like this is just another ordinary day at school. Meanwhile, I'm practically being dragged around by a guy who kidnapped me.

After several minutes of walking, I finally can't take the uncertainty anymore. “Where are we going?” I ask, glancing at him. “Is this the way to your cafeteria?”

He doesn't even look at me. “We're going to the gymnasium,” he answers.

“The gymnasium?”

“Yeah. Ceila messaged me. They're there.”

I frown. “They're there?”

“There are some men playing basketball.”

I stare at him for a second. “Uh... do I really need to go there?” I ask. “I'm not really a fan of basketball.”

He finally looks at me, and I immediately know from his expression that he isn't going to accept any excuses.

“Can't I just go home?”

“No.” His answer comes so quickly and seriously that I almost stop walking.

I look at him in disbelief. “Why not?”

“You need to be there.”

“For what?”

“To find the man you gave Ciela's recording to.”

My expression changes.

Oh. Right. That.

“But I—”

“No buts.”

I close my mouth and glare at him. I want to argue. I really do. But what exactly am I supposed to say? It's not like I can just turn around and walk away. Our hands are still handcuffed together, and as long as that thing is attached to my wrist, I'm stuck with him.

Sure, I could try kicking him. But knowing my luck, he'd probably catch me before I even got the chance to run. And then who knows what he'd do?

I glance down at our handcuffed wrists.

I am literally handcuffed to my kidnapper. This is insane.

I let out a frustrated sigh as I continue walking beside him.

Damn it. If I hadn't given the recording to that unknown man, I wouldn't be here right now. Actually, no. That's not entirely true. If that man hadn't come to my house and asked me for the recording in the first place, none of this would have happened.

He started all of this. It's his fault.

I clench my free hand into a fist as irritation builds inside me.

Whoever that man is, I need to find him. And when I do… I'm going to make sure he regrets putting me in this situation. Because if anyone deserves my anger right now, it's him.

By the time we reach the gymnasium, I can already hear the loud echo of a basketball bouncing against the polished floor. The sound gets louder with every step we take, mixed with the squeaking of shoes and the occasional shouts coming from the players. When we finally enter, the huge space immediately opens up in front of us, with several students scattered around the bleachers and a group of men playing on the court.

Cyprus leads me toward the side of the gymnasium, and I immediately spot Ciela, and the others standing together near the bleachers. The moment Ciela notices us, her eyes immediately move toward our connected wrists.

Her eyebrows rise. “Seriously?” she asks, staring at the handcuffs. “You two are still attached?”

I look down at the metal cuff around my wrist before looking back at her. “Unfortunately.”

Huxlee lets out a quiet laugh, but I shoot her a glare.

“This isn't funny,” I tell her.

“I didn't say it was,” she replies, although the amused expression on her face says otherwise.

Cleovon steps closer, looking between Cyprus and me. “You guys took long enough. We were starting to wonder where you went.”

“Class,” Cyprus answers simply.

I almost roll my eyes. Of course he says it like attending class while being handcuffed to someone is completely normal.

Signy gestures toward the court. “They're playing right now.”

I follow her gaze.

Several men are running across the basketball court, chasing after the ball as they pass it between one another. The gymnasium is loud, but I barely pay attention to the game itself. My eyes move from one player to another, trying to figure out exactly who I'm supposed to be looking for.

The unknown man.

The man who came to my house. The man I gave Ciela's recording to.

I take a slow breath and focus.

“Jacob,” Ciela says, getting my attention. “You need to look carefully. We don't know which one of them he is.”

“I know.” I step closer to the edge of the bleachers, keeping my eyes on the court.

Cyprus remains beside me because, unfortunately, neither of us can go anywhere without dragging the other along.

I start with the tallest player.

He's noticeably taller than the others, with broad shoulders and a muscular build. I watch him for a few seconds as he catches the ball and moves toward the basket. I study his posture, the way he moves, even the shape of his shoulders.

Not him.

I move my attention to the next player.

He's shorter and thinner, with a completely different build. I try to remember the figure of the man who stood in front of me at my house. I didn't get a perfect look at him, but certain things remain in my memory—the height, the build, the way he carried himself.

I watch the second player for a few more seconds.

Still not him.

My eyes move again.

One by one, I examine every player on the court. Tall. Short. Broad shoulders. Slim build. I compare each of them to the image buried somewhere in my memory, trying to pull apart every detail I can remember from that day.

“Do you recognize anyone?” Huxlee asks quietly.

“Not yet.” I don't take my eyes off the court.

Another player runs past, and I immediately focus on him. He's around the height I'm looking for, and for a moment, something about his figure catches my attention.

I narrow my eyes.

Could it be him?

I watch him move across the court, carefully observing his height and build. But after a few seconds, I shake my head.

No.

Something doesn't feel right. “Not him,” I mutter.

Ciela glances at me. “Are you sure? Who are you looking at?”

“Yeah. Number 4. The guy I saw was different.”

“How different?”

I hesitate. “I'm not completely sure,” I admit. “I only saw him for a short time, so I don't remember everything. But I'll know if I see him.”

At least, I hope I will.

I continue watching.

The players keep moving around the court, completely unaware that I'm studying them one by one. Every time someone comes into view, I compare him to the memory in my head.

I look at their height. Their shoulders. Their overall figure. The way they stand. The way they walk. Anything that might trigger recognition. Then another player catches the ball.

I freeze.

For a moment, the noise of the gymnasium seems to fade into the background. My eyes remain fixed on him. There's something familiar about his height. The way he carries himself.

I lean forward slightly, trying to get a better look. “Wait,” I whisper.

Everyone around me becomes quiet.

“What?” Signy asks.

I don't answer immediately. I keep watching the man on the court, trying to connect the person jugging on the court with the memory I've been carrying since that day.

Maybe… Maybe I finally found him.