A small room, bathed in soft shadows. They stretch along the cracked stone walls, curling and twisting like smoke, cloaking the space in a quiet, suffocating solitude. Dampness clings to the air, thick and still, heavy with the scent of earth and rust. Somewhere nearby, a single droplet falls—drip... drip... drip—the sound slicing through the silence with eerie regularity.

At the centre of the room sits a girl. Her limbs are bound tightly to a wooden chair, the ropes biting into her wrists and ankles, already rubbing the skin raw. A blindfold is pressed firmly against her eyes, sealing her in darkness. Her chest rises and falls in short, frantic bursts, each breath edged with panic. Her heart hammers wildly, the beat echoing in her ears like a drum calling something terrible closer.

Her body quivers, seized by a cold that isn’t just from the chill in the air. It’s the cold of not knowing.
Not knowing where she is.
Not knowing who has her.
Not knowing what’s about to happen.

Her mind whirls in a storm of confused thoughts.

What is this place? Why can’t I move? Is someone watching me? Am I alone?

Then—
Footsteps.

Slow. Deliberate. Each one grows louder, closer. The sound is muffled by the dirt floor, but still distinct enough to cut through the quiet like a blade.

She holds her breath.

The steps stop behind her.

For a moment, nothing. Just the racing of her heart, the blood rushing in her ears.
And then—warmth.

A breath, humid and sour, brushes against the back of her neck.

She flinches, and her voice cracks as she tries to speak.

“Who’s there? What’s happening?” she rasps. “Why are you doing this?”

No reply. Only silence.
A silence so deep it feels like the room itself is holding its breath.

Then—fingers.

Soft at first. A hand glides through her hair, slow and gentle, as though she were a doll. The fingers comb through each strand, lingering, as if savouring the texture. She jerks away, or tries to, but the ropes dig in deeper. The chair creaks beneath her.

“Don’t touch me!” she cries, her voice trembling.

Still no answer.

The hand trails downward, past the nape of her neck, to her collarbone. It pauses there. Fingertips press lightly against her skin. Each breath she draws becomes harder. Each second stretches into an eternity.

When she struggles, the grip tightens.

Her lungs burn.

And then—
It stops.

The hand retreats, only to return again to her hair, stroking it like a prized possession. This time the touch is almost affectionate. Almost.

She begins to cry.

First silently, then in broken sobs that escape her lips without her permission. The tears soak into the fabric of the blindfold, warm against her skin, blurring the already blinding darkness.

“Please…” she whispers, her voice so thin it hardly sounds like her own. “Please, just let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I don’t even know who you are—just please…”

Still no answer.

The silence stretches.

She hears breathing. Close. Too close. It matches the rhythm of her own, like a predator watching its prey. The stranger doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Just listens.

Then—finally—a voice.

A low, raspy murmur, barely louder than the sound of the dripping water.

“Elizabeth.”

Her breath catches in her throat. Her body goes still.

He knows her name.