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𓃮Inayah's pov 𓃮
The cold seeped into my bones before consciousness fully returned. My wrists ached, bound tightly behind me, the rough texture of rope biting into my skin. The air smelled like damp concrete and rust, a faint metallic taste lingering in the back of my throat as my head throbbed, a dull, relentless pounding at the base of my skull.
It hurts everywhere.
As I look around I realized that I was in a basement.
The walls were cracked concrete, streaked with grime, water and paint stains everywhere. The only light came from a bare bulb hanging low from the ceiling, swaying slightly, casting long, distorted shadows. The floor was littered with broken wood splinters, bits of metal, and rusted nails that were shinning dully in the low light.
I take in a shaky breath, letting it hitch just enough to sound fragile. Panic needed to bleed from me, genuine enough to be convincing.
Because I wasn't supposed to know where I was.
I wasn't supposed to know who brought me here.
But I did. Sadly.
For a few seconds, I let myself breathe in the fear. Let it crawl under my skin, settle in my chest. I let the panic rise, feeding it, shaping it. My breath hitched, my shoulders shook, and I widened my eyes just enough to make the look of terror real.
Because that's what he wanted, wasn't it?
Footsteps echoed from outside the room, heavy and deliberate. I bit my lip, letting out a soft, broken sound just enough to sound helpless. The door creaked open, and a figure stepped inside, face obscured by a black mask. He was tall, broad-shouldered, but the way he moved told me he was young. He was careful, too careful, like someone who wasn't used to handling this kind of situation.
I looked up at him, letting my voice tremble.
"W-Where am I?" I whisper, my voice fragile as glass. "Who are you? Why are you doing this?"
The man didn't speak. He stood there, watching me, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. I lowered my gaze, pretending to avoid his eyes but instead, I scanned him.
