4. Lena
Lena
I wake up like I’ve been dropped from somewhere high. One second, nothing. The next, air punches into my lungs and I jerk upright, heart slamming so hard it feels like it’s trying to break out of my ribs.
I’m not tied. That’s the first thing I register.
My wrists are free. My legs move when I tell them to. The mattress beneath me is firm, unfamiliar, and the sheets smell faintly like detergent that isn’t mine.
I don’t know this bed. I don’t know this room.
I sit very still.
Dim, gray early-morning light is leaking in from a window I can’t see directly. The walls are plain. Sparse. Too sparse. No art. No clutter. No signs of anyone living here in any normal way.
Except—
My gaze catches on something above the opposite wall.
A cross. It’s not decorative. It’s not polished wood bought from a store. It looks handmade, like someone welded it together out of twisted metal rods. The lines aren’t perfectly straight. One side is slightly longer than the other.
It feels less like faith and more like a warning.
My pulse spikes again.
Okay. Breathe.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed slowly, expecting something to pull tight, for rope to bite into my skin?—
Nothing. No restraints.
No one standing in the corner.
No sound except my own breathing.
Then memory hits me in jagged pieces. The restaurant, Ethan, his smile, the way he said his full name and for a split second I was sure the last name was different than what I’d seen on the app. I told myself he was nervous. People mess up when they’re nervous.
The drink.
God. The drink.
The way the room started to tilt, just slightly. The way my fingers felt heavier than they should. The way I tried to stand and the floor moved away from me instead of staying where it was supposed to.
The car.
The basement.
Masks.
Blood.
Three men arguing like I wasn’t even the main event.
My stomach flips violently. I press a hand to it and force myself not to gag.
Ethan. Where is he? Is this his place? Did he bring me here?
I look around again, sharper this time.
No purse, no shoes, no phone.
My chest tightens. Where is my phone? I reach instinctively toward the bedside table that isn’t there. My hand closes on empty air.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself, voice rough from disuse. “Okay, Lena. This is fine.”
It’s not fine. But panic won’t help.
Think.
I remember the masked men. One laughing. One calm and precise. One quiet, watching. I remember fading out again.
I look down at my clothes. I’m still dressed. Same top, same jeans. Wrinkled. My shoes are gone, though. Socks still on.
No visible bruises except faint ones around my wrists. I rub them slowly and the memory sharpens. I was tied. I was definitely tied.
Which means someone untied me. Why?
My heart starts racing again. Where is Ethan? Was he one of the men in masks?
No, the builds didn’t match. Ethan was smooth. Polished. Carefully styled. The men in masks were built like they used their bodies for work, not selfies.
And there was blood. So much blood.
I stand carefully, testing my balance. The room doesn’t spin this time, but there’s still a heaviness behind my eyes, like I haven’t fully metabolized whatever was in that drink.
The door. There’s only one. Closed. No lock on my side. That’s almost worse, because if I’m not tied, and I’m not locked in?—
Then I’m here because someone thinks I won’t run. Or because they think I can’t.
I scan again for my phone, like it might magically appear if I look hard enough.
Nothing.
No bag. No wallet. No trace of my life outside this room.
I take one careful step toward the door. The floor is cool under my socks. My pulse is loud in my ears, but everything else is silent. If I can just open it quietly—if there’s a hallway, a window, literally anything?—
“Going somewhere?”
The voice comes from behind me.
I freeze. My fingers hover inches from the handle as my body locks up completely. Every muscle tightens. Slowly, carefully, I turn around.
He’s in the shadows near the far wall. I hadn’t seen him.
Blond hair catches what little light there is, but the rest of his face is hidden behind the same black mask I remember from the basement. He’s leaning back against the wall like he’s been there the entire time, watching me wake up. Watching me think.
The quiet one. Of course it’s the quiet one.
I swallow. “So,” I say lightly, because panic is not helping anyone, “if you’re planning to narrate my escape attempt, can you at least clap at the end? I feel like I deserve points for effort.”
He doesn’t move. “You’re not escaping,” he says.
“See, that feels debatable.” I straighten, forcing my shoulders back like I'm not standing in socks in a stranger's room wearing yesterday's clothes. “You could’ve said something sooner,” I add. “I’ve been talking to myself for a solid thirty seconds.”
“You were assessing the room.” His voice is steady. Observant. Not mocking.
“Wow,” I mutter. “That’s the nicest way anyone’s ever described my panic spiral.”
He steps forward slightly, still mostly swallowed by shadow. The mask makes him harder to read, but his eyes?—
His eyes are bright. Focused. Not lazy. Not bored.
Intent.
“You’re safe,” he says.
“That word again.” I glance at the door, then back at him. “You understand how the mask undermines that, right?”
A pause.
“You’re not restrained,” he says.
“Small victories. Love those.”
I take a slow breath and force myself to lean casually against the edge of the bed instead of bolting. “Where’s Ethan?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual. Is he working with him? What sick and twisted games are they playing?
“He’s not a concern,” the man says.
“Oh, that’s comforting,” I reply.
He watches me like I’m a puzzle he didn’t expect. “You’re not afraid enough,” he says quietly.
“That’s not true,” I shoot back. “I’m terrified. I’m just trying not to look like it. There’s a difference.”
Silence stretches between us.
I tilt my head slightly. “Are you going to keep the mask on the whole time?” I ask. “Because I have to tell you, it’s giving me ‘cult initiation’ vibes, and I did not RSVP.”
He doesn’t react the way the laughing one would. Instead, he studies me. “You’re stalling,” he says.
“Correct. Self-preservation. I’d recommend it.”
He takes another small step forward. Close enough now that I can see the exact shade of his eyes through the mask’s cutouts. Blue. Clear. Intense in a way that makes my stomach flip for reasons I would rather not unpack right now.
“You don’t think I’ll hurt you,” he says.
It’s not a question.
“I think,” I say carefully, “that if you were going to, you would’ve done it while I was unconscious. Which feels like poor villain planning, by the way.”
Something shifts in his posture.
Not offense. Something else.
I push a little further, because talking is safer than silence. “Also, if this is some elaborate hostage situation, I’d appreciate knowing the dress code. I wasn’t emotionally prepared for industrial chic.”
That does it. The faintest change in his breathing. Almost a suppressed reaction.
There’s something about him that doesn’t feel like the others. The one who laughed in the basement. The one who gave orders.
This one feels?—
Conflicted.
And for reasons I don’t understand, that makes my fear shift into something more complicated.
“I’m Lena,” I say suddenly.
He hesitates a beat too long, but doesn’t say his name.
I nod slowly.
“Okay, strange man with no name. Here’s what I need. My phone. A not-ominous explanation. And maybe slightly less intensity. It’s doing things to my nervous system.”
That earns the faintest tilt of his head. “Like what?”
“Like I can’t decide if you’re my captor or my… very intense bodyguard.” The words slip out before I can filter them.
His eyes darken just slightly. “I’m not your captor,” he says.
“Good,” I reply softly. “Because I’d really like to believe that.”
And the worst part? I do. Even with the mask on. Even in this strange room with the metal cross on the wall. Even knowing I should be more afraid than this. There’s something in the way he’s looking at me that feels less like ownership?—
And more like… protection.
Which is insane, right?
“So, what’s the situation, stranger? Is it the case of the crazies?”
He chuckles.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “You guys are psychos.”
“Well no,” he says. “We’re perfectly sane, except maybe Havoc. You might want to stay away from him.”
Great. Who the fuck is Havoc?
“Okay, and why are you warning me? Are you my friend now?”
Maybe he’s trying to get me to put my guard down, the same thing I’m doing right now.
He doesn’t answer right away.
The light outside shifts, slow and subtle. Pale morning pushes through the window behind him, and as the sun climbs, it outlines him in gold. His shoulders. The sharp cut of his jaw beneath the mask. The fall of his blond hair catching light at the edges.
The room comes into clearer focus. It’s bigger than I realized at first. Sparse.
Almost monastic. Plain walls. No art except that rough metal cross welded crookedly above the far wall.
The weld marks are visible even from here—thick, imperfect seams like someone made it with their bare hands and anger.
There’s a simple dresser against one wall.
No clutter. No personal photos. No television.
The bed is sturdy, utilitarian, nothing decorative about it.
It doesn’t look like a hotel. It doesn’t look like a house. It looks temporary, like a place used, not lived in.
But I still have no idea where I am.
The light strengthens, and for the first time, I can properly see the breadth of him. Lean muscle under a dark shirt. The way he holds himself—upright but not stiff, like control is something he practices constantly.
“You know,” I say lightly, because if I stop talking, I might start shaking, “most people introduce themselves before looming silently in the shadows.”
“I wasn’t looming,” he says.
“You were absolutely looming.”
“I was observing.”