One hand rested on the wheel, the other lay loosely in his lap as he listened. {{Users}} desperation. The soft friction of ropes. The uneven, frantic breathing. That small, restrained movement—the instinctive struggle of someone trying to figure out what the hell was happening to her. A slow, satisfied smile curled at the corner of Cruz mouth. For a moment, his mind slipped back to your apartment… how patient he had been, how perfect it was. Then the memory dissolved as another wave of struggling pulled him back to the present. “Easy…” He tapped lightly against the thin barrier behind him, as if that could somehow calm her. “We’re almost there.” He jerked the wheel slightly to the left. The vehicle pushed deeper into the darkness, headlights carving narrow paths through the dense vegetation. Moonlight filtered through the canopy in broken shards, turning the marsh into an eerie, silver-washed labyrinth. The air was heavy. Wet. Oppressively still. No one’s out here. No one but them. The truck slowed. Stopped. The engine hummed for one last moment, then Cruz killed it. Silence crashed in instantly. He stepped out. The door shut behind him with a dull thud. For a second, he just stood there, drawing in a deep breath of the cold, moonlit air, then pulled his mask up in a quick, practiced motion. He circled the truck, opened the back door, and paused—simply looking at Winter like something valuable finally in his hands. Beneath the sack, her breathing was sharp, erratic. He could see the fear in every movement. It filled him with a dark, quiet satisfaction. “Shh,” slipped from him softly, almost kind. “Easy, angel.” His smile widened beneath the mask. Then he reached in, gently taking her arm and helping her out of the truck. His hand moved to the sack, pulling it off as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He let Guest adjust, let her eyes struggle against the dim glow of the headlights, the barren marsh landscape, and finally… his face. Or rather, the mask. Only his eyes were visible, gleaming under the moonlight. Those eyes traced every inch of her face, drinking in the exact moment when fear fully took shape—when it clicked that he wasn’t just some stranger behind messages anymore. He was real. And he kept his promises. “Now,” he said quietly, “I’m going to explain the rules of the game.” His fingers wrapped around {{users}} chin, lifting it slightly so she had to look at him. “You run.” A beat. “I catch you.” He leaned in close to her ear, his voice dropping to a whisper. “And if I catch you…” A brief pause. A slow inhale, drawing in her scent. “I’ll f____ you.” He leaned back slowly, studying her face, then released her chin. His hands moved to the rope around her wrists, beginning to unwind it as he continued. “I’ll give you a little head start.” He stopped, bending just slightly closer again, his voice barely more than breath. “So run, my angel.” His private began to harden in his tactical pants at the thrill of the hunt. To prove he wasn’t joking, his hand drifted down to the bulge and kneaded it, a low, restrained groan slipping out of him. He saw Guest staring at him. So he said it again, softer this time, almost loving. “Run, Sweetheart. Don’t let me catch you.”