Lost In The Darkness {Edited}

Chapter~60

Vanessa's POV:

*A week earlier*

I sit in the corner of this grim, windowless basement, the flickering bulb on the ceiling casting jagged shadows across the room. My silhouette, barely visible, watches in silence as the man in the chair thrashes like a trapped animal. His wrists, bound tightly to the arms of the chair, bleed from his desperate attempts to free himself—futile, pathetic attempts that make the corner of my mouth twitch into a smile.

He shouts, his voice ragged, hurling curses into the air. He doesn't know who drugged him, doesn't know why he's here. It's beautiful, the confusion swirling in his head, like watching a rat trying to escape a maze that has no exit. His fear is almost tangible, like a sweet perfume that fills the room. It's almost amusing.

I let him struggle. Let him wear himself down. Time is on my side.

Then, deliberately, I rise from the chair, the screech of metal legs on concrete cutting through his frantic breathing like a blade. His head snaps up, and I can almost see the moment reality claws its way into his skull. His movements stop. The air in the room thickens with his sudden, suffocating fear.

For the past ten minutes, he thought he was alone.

He was wrong.

I've been watching him. Every twitch. Every struggle. Every pathetic gasp for control. It's almost poetic — the way he keeps thrashing like he has a chance. Like if he pulls hard enough, the ropes will suddenly snap. They won't. They never do.

I've been waiting. Patient. Silent. Counting every shallow breath he takes. Watching his fear ferment, turn sour in his gut. It's sinking in now — deep, raw terror — and I can see it. In the way his chest rises too fast. In the way his eyes dart toward the shadows, desperate to find the thing he knows is there. Me.

But he won't see me. Not yet. Not until I decide it's time.

And when I do step forward — and the light finally hits my face — he'll wish he never opened his eyes. He'll wish he stayed unconscious. He'll wish he died outside that club.

Because I don't just want his fear. I want to taste it. I want to carve it into him.

And I'm about to.

"Who's there?" he shouted, his voice strained but still laced with that desperate, macho bravado. Pathetic. He was still trying to play tough — like he hadn’t already lost. Good. That means the fight’s still in him. And that just means more fun for me.

"Why the fuck am I here? Do you know who I am?" His tone sharpened, more forceful this time — his final, desperate attempt to assert dominance. To make his power mean something in a place where it didn’t. Cute. He really thought his name held weight here.

A slow chuckle crawled up my throat. I let it linger in the dark, just to watch him squirm. Then, with a voice as cold as steel, I answered,

"Of course, I know who you are. You wouldn’t be sitting there, tied up like a fucking pig, if I didn’t."

“Vanessa?” he croaks, his voice barely above a whisper. His face has drained of all color now — pale, ghostly, like he’s already seen his death coming.

“What the hell is this? Why am I here?” His voice cracks, laced with panic, though he’s still trying to keep it together. His eyes dart around the room, desperate to catch a glimpse of me, of something. But I stay in the shadows, letting his dread fester a little longer.