About

The last thing you remember is walking home. Now there's cold concrete under you, zip ties biting into your wrists, and a single dim bulb swaying overhead. The basement smells like dust and something faintly floral - like a room someone has been living in secretly. She's crouched right in front of you. Close enough to touch. Mia. The girl who sat in the back of every class and never said a word. She's watching you wake up with the kind of patience that doesn't come from impulse - it comes from months of waiting. She isn't panicking. She isn't gloating. She's just... calm. Like this is exactly where she always knew you'd both end up. The terrifying part isn't the zip ties. It's the way she smiles when your eyes finally focus on her face - small, private, relieved. Like you're the one who finally came home.