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KIRA

M y head throbs as consciousness creeps back in. Everything’s a blur—the convention, the crowds, fragments drifting through my mind like scattered puzzle pieces.

The surface beneath me feels unyielding. My arms won’t move. Why won’t they move?

I force my heavy eyelids open. A gray concrete ceiling stretches above me, harsh fluorescent lights casting everything in a clinical glow. This isn’t my room.

“Hello?” My voice rasps slightly. The air smells sterile, with the lingering scent of fresh paint.

I try to sit up but can’t. Something holds my wrists and ankles in place. The panic hits like a punch to the gut as reality crashes in. I’m tied down. Actually tied down.

“Help! Someone help me!” I thrash against the restraints. The padded cuffs dig into my skin despite their cushioning. I have to get free.

“Jenna! Anyone!” My throat burns as I scream. The room remains silent except for my ragged breathing and desperate struggle. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, indifferent to my terror.

Tears blur my vision as I twist and pull, searching for any weakness in the bindings. This can’t be happening.

But it is happening. I’m trapped in some windowless concrete room, tied to a bed, with no idea where I am or how I got here. The convention... That guy... What did he do to me?

My heart pounds so hard I can barely breathe. The room spins as a full-on panic attack sets in.

“Please,” I beg, though I know no one can hear. “Please let me go.”

The room’s silence mocks my plea. There are no windows, no natural light, and no way to tell if it’s day or night. There is only the faint hum of lights and the soft whir of ventilation.

I pull against the restraints again, ignoring the pain. I won’t give up. But deep down, a horrible realization hits me—I’m completely at the mercy of whoever brought me here.

Time warps in my panic. I drift between frantic struggling and exhausted stillness, my wrists rubbed raw. Thirst claws at my throat. The unchanging artificial light adds to my disorientation.

The convention. I remember fragments now—the Ghost cosplayer.GhostDaddyfrom TikTok. The drink that made everything fuzzy. He drugged me. Lured me away from the crowd.

A small voice tells me that part of me had been attracted to his intensity, his mystery. I’ve fantasized about men in masks, about being taken and dominated, but not like this—not for real.

The sound of a lock disengaging jerks me to alertness. My pulse skyrockets as I strain against my bonds. A heavy metal door slides open with a pneumatic hiss.

“Please,” I beg, voice cracking. “Whatever you want, we can talk about this.”

No response. Just heavy footsteps approaching from behind me, where I can’t see.

A figure moves into my field of vision. He is tall, muscular, and dressed in tactical gear. His face is hidden behind the Ghost mask from Call of Duty—the same one fromGhostDaddy’svideos and the same one from the convention.

“You’re awake.” His voice is distorted through the mask. “Good. I was getting impatient.”

“Who are you? What do you want from me?” I keep my voice steady.

He tilts his head. “You know who I am,Kira. You’ve been following me for a while, touching yourself to my videos.”

Heat floods my face despite my terror. How does he know that?

“I don’t understand.” I pull against the restraints helplessly. “Please, just let me go. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Let you go?” He laughs, the sound hollow, almost mechanical through the mask. “Why would I do that when I’ve invested so much time and effort bringing you home?”

Home. The word makes my stomach drop. This isn’t a random abduction. This was planned.

His gloved hand reaches toward my face, and I turn away, but there’s nowhere to go. His fingers brush my cheek gently.

“You’re even more beautiful in person,” he murmurs. “The cameras never quite captured it.”

Cameras? The feeling of being watched in my apartment. The strange glitches with my Alexa. The texts from unknown numbers at the convention. What the actual fuck?

“How long?” My voice is barely audible. “How long have you been watching me?”

“Long enough to know everything about you,Mischief.” He uses the nicknameRoguealways used in our gaming sessions.

“Rogue?” The name slips out before I can stop it.

He removes the mask smoothly, and I finally see his face. Those piercing blue eyes from the club, that jawline, those lips that smirked at me across the dance floor. “Among other names. You know me asGhostDaddy, too.” His lips curve into a malicious smile. “But you can call meRyker.”

My mind reels.Rogue, my gaming partner for two years, the mysterious blue-eyed man from the club, theGhostDaddyaccount I’ve been obsessing over—all of them are the same man?

“No.” I shake my head. “That’s not possible.”

“Oh, it’s very possible.” He sets the mask down on a sleek metal table. “I’ve been part of your life for two years,Kira, gaming with you most nights and watching you through your webcam.”

“My webcam is always off when we’re not streaming,” I protest weakly.

He laughs—Rogue’slaugh. “That little green light? Child’s play to bypass. Technology is my specialty, remember? All those conversations about my ‘tech job’? Not entirely a lie.”

The implications hit me like a physical blow.

“Why?” I ask. “Why me? Why all this?”

Rykerkneels beside the bed, bringing his face level with mine. This close, I can see the obsession burning in his eyes.

“Because you’re perfect,” he says simply. “Because from the moment I heard your voice in that first lobby, I knew you were meant to be mine.”

“I’m not yours. I don’t belong to anyone.”

“Don’t you?” His touch skims my jaw. “You’ve belonged to me since the moment I found you.”

He stands abruptly, returning with a water bottle, which he holds to my lips.

“Drink,” he commands. “You’re dehydrated.”

I want to refuse, but my parched throat overrides my pride. I drink greedily, water spilling down my chin.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, wiping the water with his thumb.

The praise sends an unwelcome warmth through me. After years of hearing that voice congratulate me on kills and victories, my body has been conditioned to respond.

“What are you going to do with me?” I ask when I find my voice again.

“That depends on you.” He sets the water bottle aside. “On how well you play the game.”

“Game?” I repeat, confusion momentarily overriding fear.

“Our game.” He gestures around the room. “The one I’ve been designing for you all this time.”

For the first time, I really look at my surroundings. What I initially took for a simple concrete cell is actually a sophisticated space. The restraints aren’t crude ropes but carefully designed cuffs. Everything is deliberate and planned.

“You’re insane.”

“No. I’m dedicated.” He sits on the edge of the bed, his weight making the mattress dip. “I’ve put more thought into this than anything else.”

“Into kidnapping me?” My voice rises with hysteria. “That’s not dedication, that’s a crime!”

“Labels,” he dismisses with a wave. “Society has such limited vision. They can’t understand what we have.”

“We don’t have anything!” I yank at my restraints again. “We played games together online. That doesn’t give you the right to do this!”

His expression darkens. “You felt the connection, too. Don’t lie to yourself. All those late nights, those personal conversations. The way you’d linger in the lobby after everyone else left.”

He’s right, and that’s what terrifies me most. I had felt a connection with Rogue beyond being just gaming partners. I’d imagined meeting him, fantasizing about putting a face to the voice I’d grown to care for.

But not like this.

“You could have just told me,” I say, my voice breaking. “Asked me out like a normal person.”

“And risk rejection?” He shakes his head. “No, I needed to control the variables and ensure you saw me how I wanted to be seen.”

“By kidnapping me? How is that better than rejection?”

“Because now you’re here.” His hand finds my hair, fingers threading through it possessively. “Now you can know the real me without distractions. Just us, in the environment I’ve created.”

“Ryker, please. This isn’t right.” I make my voice gentle. “If you care about me, you wouldn’t keep me tied up like this.”

Something flickers in his eyes—doubt, perhaps? It’s gone instantly.

“The restraints are temporary,” he says, his thumb tracing my lower lip. “Just until you understand the rules and accept your role in our game.”

He moves to a sleek console built into the wall. Multiple screens flicker to life, displaying security camera feeds of different rooms.

“My life has always been about games,”Rykerexplains, gesturing to the screens. “Strategy, knowing every possible move. When I found you, I knew I’d discovered the perfect ‘player two.”

He taps command, and the screens change to display a game interface with my name, health bars, and achievement trackers.

“I built this entire compound for us,” he continues, pride evident in his voice. “Every room, every level, is designed specifically for your progression. This is just the starting area—the tutorial.”

“I’ve designed specific levels,” he continues, his voice taking on that familiar cadence from our gaming sessions. “Complete the challenges, earn rewards. Fail...” He pauses, eyes darkening. “Well, let’s hope you don’t fail.”

“You can’t be serious.” I stare at the screens in horror. “You expect me to play along with this?”

“I expect you to adapt,” he corrects, returning to my bedside. “Like you always do in games. You analyze the situation, learn the mechanics, and excel. It’s what makes you such a good match for me.”

“This isn’t a game, Ryker! This is my life!”

His hand covers my mouth, cutting off my words. His eyes are cold now.

“I can do whatever I want,” he says quietly. “I’ve spent two years planning this, creating this space, designing these levels. There’s no escape. No rescue coming. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be.”

He removes his hand slowly. I remain silent, fear freezing the words in my throat.

“Good,” he says, nodding approvingly. “Now, let’s discuss the first level.”

He moves to release my restraints. For a brief moment, I consider attacking him. But he’s bigger, stronger, and clearly prepared. My best chance is to play along while looking for opportunities to escape.

My wrists ache as he removes the cuffs. I sit up slowly, rubbing at the raw skin.Rykerblocks the heavy metal door, his imposing figure between me and freedom.

Music fills the room—a slow, pulsing beat mocking my racing heart.

“The first challenge is simple,”Rykersays, settling into a leather chair. “Strip tease for me. Make it good, and you’ll earn experience points.”

I stare in disbelief. After everything—the kidnapping, the restraints, the years-long deception—he expects me to perform?

“And if I refuse?” My voice is steadier than I expected.

His smile doesn’t waver. “Then you lose points. Lose enough, and the penalties aren’t pleasant. But earn enough?” He gestures to a menu of “rewards” on a screen. “You can trade them for privileges. Better food. Softer restraints. Maybe even a walk outside, eventually.”

“You’re sick,” I say, hugging my arms around myself.

“No, I’m a completionist. And you? You’re my favorite game yet.”

The screens pulse with colored light, creating an atmosphere like my favorite virtual worlds, except I’m trapped in someone else’s twisted reality.

I consider my options. Fighting would be futile, and refusing might lead to punishment. I need to survive, understand the rules, and find weaknesses.

With shaking hands, I stand from the bed. The screens display my “health” bar, already depleting as I hesitate.

“Time to start playing,”Rykersays, now wearing the Ghost mask again.

“Dance for me. Show me what you’ve been practicing in your room.” His voice carries that same commanding tone from our gaming sessions. “Bonus points for a lap dance.”

“You saw that?” The realization makes my skin crawl.

“Every move.” He taps the arm of his chair. “The points are counting down. Better start dancing.”

I force my body to sway, fighting back tears. The Ghost costume he wears, which had always seemed so alluring, now feels like a cruel joke.

“Come closer,” he commands, patting his lap.

I take a shaky step forward.

I move to the music, trying to remember how dancers look in movies. My hands shake as I slip off my top, letting it fall. The cold air prickles my skin. I focus on the health bar, seeing it stabilize as I comply.

“Good girl,”Rykermurmurs behind the Ghost mask. “You’re learning.”

I turn away, unable to meet those dark eyes as I shimmy out of my costume. Standing in my black lingerie, I wrap my arms around myself.

“Don’t be shy. The lap dance earns bonus points.”

I perch awkwardly on his lap, trying to move to the beat. His hands grip my hips, directing my movements. The Ghost mask stares up at me, emotionless and cold.

“Relax,” he commands, fingers digging into my skin. “Let the music move you.”

I close my eyes, pretending I’m anywhere else.

My hips move against him, and I feel his hardness pressing up through his clothes. A small gasp escapes my lips. Heat floods my cheeks.

His hands guide my movements, making me grind down harder. Each roll of my hips sends sparks of pleasure through me. I try to fight it, but my body responds to his touch.

Opening my eyes, I see Ghost, those eyes burning behind the mask. I recall watching GhostDaddy’svideos and imagining scenarios like this. But this is wrong. This isn’t consensual roleplay—this is captivity.

My thighs quiver as his hands move to grip me. His muscles flex beneath me, exactly like I’d fantasized. The costume, the mask, his commanding presence... It’s as if he pulled the fantasy straight from my dreams and twisted it into this nightmare.

“Your body knows what it wants,” he growls. “Stop fighting it.”

I bite my lip to hold back a moan as he shifts beneath me. Shame and arousal war inside me as my body responds to his expert manipulation.

This can’t be happening. I can’t be getting turned on by my kidnapper. But with each movement, my resistance crumbles.

“That’s it… let go.”

His hands roam over my skin, and each touch sends shivers down my spine, making it harder to remember this isn’t one of my fantasies.

“Please,” I beg.

“Your points are increasing.” One hand slides up my back. “You’re doing so well.”

The praise strikes me deeply, the same thrill I get from our gaming victories. But this isn’t a game. This is my life now.

He grips the edge of my bra strap. “You’ve imagined this, haven’t you? All those nights watching my videos, touching yourself...”

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out how right he is.

His hand tangles in my hair when I don’t comply, forcing my head back. “Open your eyes.”

I meet his gaze through the mask.

“You’re mine now,” he says, rolling his hips up against me. “Every fantasy, every desire—I’ll make them all real.”

A whimper escapes my lips as pleasure shoots through me. My body trembles, caught between fear and arousal. His grip tightens, holding me in place as he grinds against me.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Let go. Show me how much you want this.”

But I don’t want this. Do I? My mind screams no while my body begs for more. Each touch brings me closer to the edge of something I’m terrified to fall into.