NEMOPHILIST || ej.

【 VI 】

A few days had passed since Y/N's arrival at the cabin, and she felt like a ghost haunting her own misery.

She’d only seen her captor twice during this time. Each day, he would peer through the door, not saying a word, just checking if she was still alive, as if that was all she was—a ticking clock, waiting to stop. She doubted she'd last much longer under these conditions.

The man seemed to be under the impression that she was some sort of android, not a living, breathing person who needed food, water, and basic human necessities. Her throat was parched, her stomach twisted in hunger, and the room reeked of unwashed bodies. She had become an expert in ignoring her discomfort, all while fuming at her captor's lack of basic hospitality.

The cold was relentless. Y/N barely moved from her spot on the mattress, huddled in the small hole she’d torn in the cotton. Outside, snow fell endlessly, and the icy air seeped through the cracks, turning her fight for warmth into a losing battle. She cursed under her breath, wondering why he couldn’t have at least provided a heater. What kind of kidnapper forgets to ensure his prisoner’s survival?

Time dragged painfully slowly. Sleep was her only escape, but even in her dreams, she found no solace. Her recent nightmares had been worse—an ominous figure had taken a personal interest in her terror. His words echoed through her mind like a haunting refrain: "Why run when you know you can’t escape?" Was he referring to the endless chases in her nightmares, or was there something more sinister at play? The thought gnawed at her.

She tried to piece together the fragments of her recent memories—the gas station incident, the man’s cryptic warning. The connections eluded her, and the more she thought about it, the more her head ached. Frustration surged through her, but she let it go, leaning back against the mattress springs and staring up at the ceiling.

Her wrists throbbed from the handcuffs, the metal biting into her flesh and causing painful blisters. Her hair was greasy and tangled, and her shirt was damp with sweat despite the cold. She was a mess—an anxious, filthy mess. But she couldn’t let him see how desperate she felt. Survival instincts kicked in, and she resolved to fight for every scrap of dignity she had left.

Just then, the familiar creak of floorboards reached her ears, and she turned her head towards the door. Her captor was coming to check on her again. Maybe this time, she could convince him to do something about the unbearable conditions.

Her fear had shifted to anger. She was tired of being the terrified prisoner. The situation was infuriating, and she realized that he hadn't killed her yet, which meant he still needed her for something. That realization sparked a flicker of determination.

The door creaked open, and her captor stepped inside. Today, he was dressed differently—black long-sleeved shirt, faded blue jeans, and heavy boots. He looked strong, almost like he could rip through the fabric of his clothes if he wanted. The sight made her feel both wary and frustrated. The oversized clothes did nothing to hide the fact that she couldn't take him in a fight, a realization that sent a wave of helplessness crashing over her.

Despite the change in attire, he still wore his mask—navy blue with thick black gauze covering the eyeholes. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she felt his gaze on her, scrutinizing her every move. It was unsettling, like being watched by a faceless predator.

She sat up, brushing her hair out of her face and trying to steady herself.

"I’m assuming you’re alive," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. The sound of it made her stomach churn.