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Islowly blink, forcing my eyes open. My head throbs with a dull, rhythmic pulse, and there’s a metallic taste on my tongue.

Once again, I’m disoriented.

And once again, I’m tied to a fucking chair.

My limbs feel sluggish and unresponsive. Whatever Kyle jabbed into my neck before I blacked out is still working its way through my system—everything feels foggy.

My back aches like I’ve been stuck in this chair for hours, and my muscles are sore in ways that don’t make sense. There’s pain in my shoulders, and my ribs hurt.

How the fuck does he keep moving me?

He must be carelessly hauling my limp body around like I’m dead weight. It feels like he dragged me by the arms.

But then my nose catches a scent. It smells like food, and I realize just how hungry I am. I feel like I’ve been passed out or drugged for days.

My stomach twists, both from the scent and the brutalrealization of how long it’s been since I last ate at Logan’s apartment. I don’t even know how long ago that was anymore.

A day? Two? More?

My stomach clenches painfully, a hollow, cramping reminder that I’m running on nothing. I feel weak and shaky, and so deeply uncomfortable as I notice the other sensation.

My face flushes with shame before I even register what it is.

I shift slightly, and the feeling confirms it—my jeans are damp and cold against my skin. Somewhere between being drugged and waking up here, I must’ve pissed myself, and humiliation hits me hard and fast.

I squeeze my eyes shut, hating how my body feels like it’s no longer mine and he’s stripped away every bit of control I had, right down to my basic dignity.

I force myself to hold back my emotions and figure out where I am.

It looks like a house. At first glance, anyway.

Despite it looking like a semi-normal studio apartment with furniture, lamps, and even a fucking fake plant, I’m still tied to a chair like a prisoner. And through the smell of food, I catch a hint of fresh paint.

The space seems clean and semi-nice, and that somehow makes it worse than the dark basement. It’s like he’s trying to disguise a prison as a home, and that’s when I realize what’s off about this space.

There are no windows. I can’t see a single one, and I’ve never been in a house without windows. It’s like he built this space to look lived in, but it feels more like he constructed a cage to keep us trapped in this room together.

Kyle walks over in my direction, holding a plate of food. “Oh, good. You’re awake,” he says, as he walks closer and sets the food on the table near me.

“I figured you’d be starving,” he says, like we’re roommates or friends.

He’s right, Iamstarving, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction, so I clench my jaw and swallow the hunger down as best I can.

“Where the fuck are we?” I force out.

“Our new home. We needed a fresh start,” he says casually. “The basement was always temporary. I knew you wouldn’t be comfortable there forever. But this…” He gestures vaguely around the room. “This is where we really begin. I built it for you, angel. This was my construction project.”

A cold sweat breaks across my skin.Built it?

“I tried to make this place our home. I even decorated it for us. Look,” he says, pointing to a spot behind me. I try to turn my head, but I don’t even need to move that far.

There are pictures. So many pictures. A collection of photos he’s printed out of me. Some are grainy—he must’ve taken them at the bar, while I was walking, even one from inside my house, probably from when I heard the noise in the bushes. Others are clearly from my social media; he even has the picture from my narrator profile. My face is everywhere—it’s something out of a nightmare. He even photoshopped us together in some, and placed his face over Logan’s.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” he muses. “I wanted this place to feel like you. We can add more pictures of us soon. I bought one of those home printers for us.”

I’m trapped in a fucking shrine to myself with a psychopath.

I force myself to breathe evenly, keeping my voice flat. “This is fucked.”