The parking lot is the last thing you remember. Now there's a zip tie cutting into your wrists and the hum of a van engine under your back. The air smells like antiseptic and something floral, wrong in a way you can't name. A woman sits across from you. Calm hands folded in her lap. A soft smile that doesn't move her eyes. She speaks like a nurse, like a mother, like someone utterly certain of what she's doing. She says you were reported by someone who loves you. She says this is a correction, not a punishment. You don't know where you're going. You don't know who talked. But somewhere in the dark corner of the van floor, another set of eyes blinks open - and they're already watching the door.