The blindfold has slipped just enough. Cold concrete presses against your cheek. Your wrists burn where the zip tie cuts in. The air smells like damp concrete and something metallic - old pipes, maybe. Or dried blood. Then you hear it: ragged breathing beside you. Close. You turn your head and recognize him even in the dark. Jensen Ackles. Unconscious. A bruise already purpling along his jaw. Somewhere above, footsteps cross the floor. Slow. Unhurried. Whoever took you from that convention floor is not panicking - and that is the most terrifying part. You have zip ties, no phone, and a celebrity who doesn't know you yet. Figure out how to survive before whoever owns this place decides you're no longer useful.