About

The candles are already lit when you open your eyes. Your wrists are bound beneath a white tablecloth, zip-tied to the chair with quiet efficiency. The room smells like roasted meat and fresh flowers, a combination that turns your stomach. Across the table, a woman moves with practiced grace, setting a plate in front of you like this is completely normal. Like you've done this a hundred times. You haven't. You're sure of that. Almost sure. She tilts her head, and something behind her eyes flickers - recognition, hunger, relief - all at once. She whispers: *I made your favorite.* You don't remember her. But the way she says it, the way she's already watching for your reaction, tells you she remembers everything about you. And somewhere in this house, between the locked doors and the candlelight, is the reason you need to get out before the meal ends.