UNKNOWN GUEST

#111 A Fancy Prison

James' POV-

"Hey, honey. We're home."

I blinked, disoriented. My head felt light, like I was floating between dreams and reality. The familiar voice jolted something inside me, and I looked up.

"Mom?"

She stood in front of me, smiling warmly like she always did when I was younger, like nothing bad had ever happened to us. There was no trace of exhaustion or worry on her face—just that same soft, reassuring glow.

"Good morning," she said, her voice gentle, like the morning sun slipping through the cracks of a window.

For a moment, I smiled back. "Good morning. You're not hurt, are you?"

She shook her head, a small, dismissive gesture. "No. I'm fine. So is your dad. Come on, I made breakfast."

And just like that, my smile faltered. Something was off.

My heart sank, and the weight of the realization settled in my chest like a stone. It wasn't real. Of course, it wasn't.

She noticed my smile disappear, her brow furrowing. "What's wrong, baby?"

I forced a smile, even though I could feel tears burning in the corners of my eyes.

"Mom," I whispered, my voice cracking, "you never make breakfast. Dad does."

Her gaze dropped, sadness flickering across her face, and I chuckled bitterly, though it felt hollow.

"This is a dream, isn't it? No... a nightmare."

She looked up, her lips curling into a bittersweet smile. "I love you, my baby," she whispered softly, the way she always used to when I was scared as a kid.

"I love you, Mom," I said back, a lump forming in my throat.

Then she started crying.

It wasn't the kind of crying I remembered from her—not the quiet tears she'd sometimes shed when things got tough. No, this was different. Her sobs were silent, but thick streaks of red began trickling down her cheeks.

Blood.

I froze.

"Mom!" I gasped, my voice breaking. "Mom, no! What's happening?"

I tried to move, tried to reach out and wipe the blood away, but my hands wouldn't budge. My heart slammed against my ribs, panic surging through me like a tidal wave. I looked down—and realized my wrists were bound to the cold metal frame of a bed. So were my legs.

No. No, no, no.

I thrashed against the straps, my breath hitching. I knew this feeling too well—I was back. Back in the nightmare. Back in the same hell they'd put me through before.

Ross. His men must have captured me.

And now... they've handed me over to the High-Heel Witch. My blood ran cold at the thought. The memories flooded in—her perfume, the sharp click of her heels, the cold way she smiled when she inflicted pain.

My breaths grew rapid, almost hyperventilating. I yanked hard at the straps, my wrists aching from the effort. I wasn't going to let them take me back to that place—I couldn't go back.

Suddenly, the door swung open with a loud creak, and bright, fluorescent lights flooded the room, blinding me. I squeezed my eyes shut against the glare.

"You're awake, Roberts?"

The familiar voice cut through the panic. I blinked a few times, adjusting to the light, and looked up to see Rhodes standing there, arms crossed, his expression hovering between concern and amusement.