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Patrick Marrion gripped the steering wheel of his Honda Ridgeline and lifted his foot from the gas. The rattle in the old engine slowed as he pressed the brake nearly to the floor. Grime blocked his view through the unwashed side window, so he wound it down. A chill wind whipped around the cab.

One dilapidated concrete structure followed another. Bent wire fences bordered expanses of broken concrete. A winter gust brought a hint of gasoline from the dirty waters of Nashville’s Cumberland River while I-24 rumbled and honked away to his right. But between the river and the road stood cracked tarmac, abandoned warehouses, and a railway line with freight wagons puttering along.

Maybe he was in the wrong place. Maybe he’d misremembered the directions.

This wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where he’d expected to find his online friend, Monty31.

Patrick took a hand from the wheel and rubbed his fingers over the scars on his neck. The old burn marks started at his cheek, ran down his neck, and wound around to his back. Years of surgery had evened out the worst of the disfigurement, but the tissue remained red and swollen.

He glared at the holder on the dashboard where his phone should’ve been. His roommate had taken to stealing his possessions and holding them hostage. Jake had taken his keys once and hadn’t given them back until Patrick bought him a coke from the vending machine in the common area. Clothes went missing until he did a load of Jake’s laundry too.

Patrick had no idea what he’d have to do to get his phone back. Something bigger for sure.

Jake was such an asshole.

Patrick had known Jake for less than three months and hated him already.

But he could deal without his phone for now. He’d checked the address on his laptop so many times, he knew the route by heart. This was the right place. He was sure it was.

Patrick pushed the gas. The rattle in the engine returned.

He was getting out at last. Meeting people. Making friends. His world was opening, getting bigger. His excitement rose.

It was about time.

He’d been so lonely since leaving home and moving across town to Central Tennessee State University. The change hadn’t gone the way he’d planned. He thought he’d make real friends at last, find people like him, with the same interests and the same outlooks. They’d hang out and play video games. They might even sneak into bars. Make real friends who confided in each other.

And he’d be happy.

But so far, college had been a nightmare. Just like high school.

And his roommate was the worst.

Studying was impossible. Even being in the room—with the music pounding and Jake’s friends treating Patrick’s bed like a sofa—was just awful. Patrick had asked to move, but the housing officer told him he had to wait.

He couldn’t bear it. The less time he spent there, the better.

A one-story warehouse came into view on the right. Patrick remembered seeing the zigzag roof on Street View and the padlocked gate in front. The place he was looking for was a few hundred yards up. He eased into his seat.

School was little better than the dorm.

He thought people would speak to him in class. His fellow history majors shared the same appreciation for the past and everything history could tell them.

But even among his classmates, he’d struggled to make friends. Conversations in the cafeteria took place without him. His contributions, when he plucked up the courage to make them, went ignored.

Before college, he’d had his family. Now there was no escape. His mom kept telling him that he could just move back home, that he could commute to class. But that felt like a kind of failure.

The result was that he’d never felt so lonely.

Patrick fingered the scars on his neck again. It was a nervous tick he’d tried and failed to break. And his mom was right—messing with the scars only aggravated them.

People assumed he’d get used to the staring, but he never had. He’d just come to expect it.

Monty31 would be different. Surely, he’d be different.

They’d only chatted online. Patrick didn’t even know his real name, but he did know Monty31 recently moved to Nashville and was lonely too. They’d hit it off right away online. His new friend would ignore his scars. They’d sit in cafés and discuss ancient Roman military tactics and do all the things friends did together.

And Patrick would have a life.

Finally, Monty31’s building appeared in front of him. Two floors of bare concrete and broken windows. Torn plastic sheets flapped in some of the gaps. Grass grew in the cracks in the ramp that led down to the underground parking garage.

Patrick took a sip from a jumbo cup in the holder of his truck and slurped down the last of the ice-diluted coke. The parking space lines were long-faded. He drove into the darkness under the building. Water dripped from a rusty pipe that ran crookedly across the ceiling. The air smelled of mold. Only one other vehicle stood in the garage, a white Toyota Tacoma, and Patrick wondered whether anyone else lived here.

The location didn’t strike him as strange on the surface. Monty31 had been in the city for less than two weeks. He was probably still setting himself up, still finding his feet. Tech workers liked living in converted warehouses, according to science fiction books, so this made sense to Patrick, as Monty31 was into computers.

His new friend had probably bought the entire building and was turning it into a giant studio. Maybe, if he was lucky, Monty31 would invite Patrick to move in, too, and give him the entire second floor rent-free.

He parked beside the Tacoma and climbed the short flight of stairs to the first level, imagining what he’d do with an entire floor of a warehouse to himself.

One corner would be all bookcases. There’d be leather armchairs with brass studs and one of those globes that opened into a sophisticated bar cart. He and Monty31 would smoke cigars and drink bourbon with all their friends, chatting about why the government didn’t know what the heck it was doing and describe how they’d manage the world better.

Another corner would become a gym. A pile of weights and a heavy punching bag. Maybe one of those fancy cycling machines. Wouldn’t take him too long to build a bit of muscle, and his spindly arms wouldn’t stay spindly for long.

And he’d turn an entire wall into an entertainment center, with a seventy-two-inch screen and a PlayStation, and a proper gaming chair, and…and anything else he wanted. A pool table would be good.

Of course, there’d be the bedroom.

Once he had everything else, that bedroom would see plenty of activity.

But, most importantly, there’d be friends coming and going in droves.

The thought warmed Patrick despite the dampness of the staircase’s rusty handrail and the stiff wind that blew through the broken panes.

He made his way down the hall, stepping over pieces of broken tile and old timber scattered across the concrete. At regular intervals, doorways led into what might’ve once been workshops. But like the workshops themselves, the doors had long gone, leaving nothing but rusty hinges and cold drafts.

The only door still in place was at the far end of the passageway. Made of metal, an unlocked padlock hung from a bracket by the doorknob.

Patrick hesitated. His heart thumped in his chest, and he cursed himself. He had no reason to be nervous. Monty31 was a friend. His first friend.

He knocked. The echo from the steel boomed down the empty corridor. From the other side of the wall came footsteps, followed by a loud creak as the door opened.

And there he was. Patrick wanted to punch the air in excitement.

Monty31 seemed exceptional. He was tall, fairly handsome, and muscular. Definitely more athletic than Patrick. His track pants and t-shirt were casual and inexpensive.

But besides that, Monty31 was entirely normal. Even the glance at the scar on Patrick’s cheek and neck came and went before Monty31 pulled the door all the way open and smiled.

Relief rushed through Patrick, though something in the back of his mind whispered a warning. Why did Monty31 choose to live here?

“You’re Patrick, right? HistoryBoi1789?”

He beamed. “I am indeed. And you’re Monty31, right? What’s your actual name?”

“Call me Monty. Come on in.”

Patrick wanted to hug him, but that was too much. He stepped into the warehouse.

And it was all wrong.

The walls were bare. Dust, wood chips, and what looked like chunks of asbestos coated the concrete floor. A long length of rope dangled from a high beam beneath the cracked paint ceiling, which struck Patrick as odd. The only furniture was a mattress in one corner next to a gas cooker and a massive backpack for hiking. A laptop computer lay on the mattress.

Patrick’s heart sank.

Monty31 wasn’t living in a giant studio warehouse he’d bought and converted for millions. He was squatting in an empty building in the worst part of town.

Patrick wondered whether he should invite his new friend to stay with him. Even the patch of floor between his and Jake’s bed would be better than this place.

He stepped back toward the door. Maybe they could head to a café or something. Or a club. Talk about the possibility of Monty31 moving in with him.

He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Do you want to go?—”

A noise came from behind him. A foot step, a crinkle of plastic. The undeniable presence of someone else in the room.

He turned. “What?—”

The world went dark, hot, and suffocating as plastic sealed over his face, pulled tight against his mouth and nose.

He gasped, and the bag sucked in against his lips, choking the breath from him.

Hands grabbed his wrists, wrenching them behind his back. A knee dug into his spine, forcing him forward. Someone else was here.

Panic exploded inside him.

More bullying. Even here. Even now.

Patrick thrashed, trying to shake them off, but his shoes scraped uselessly against the concrete.

“Get off! Get?—”

His voice collapsed into nothing, the plastic swallowing the sound. He gagged, his breath bouncing back hot and wet against his own skin.

Plastic stuck to his forehead, to his lips. The taste of old coke hit his tongue. He sucked in through his nose, but every inhale made the bag press tighter against his face.

His shirt ripped.

The sharp slap of winter air burned against his exposed back.

Patrick whimpered, the sound lost in the heat trapped around his mouth. His struggles weakened, his movements turning sluggish.

He couldn’t breathe.

His limbs tingled, numbing with lack of oxygen. A bitter, metallic taste filled his mouth as his teeth clamped down on the inside of his cheek.

His body sagged, the fight draining out of him.

Just when he thought he would surely die, the bag was ripped away.

Air rushed into his lungs, cold and sharp as glass. Patrick gasped, blinking through a haze of dizziness. The plastic crumpled to the floor beside him, but his relief lasted less than a second.

Because Monty31 was there.

Right in front of him.

Grinning.

His eyes were alight, his cheeks flushed with giddy excitement. Like this was the best night of his life.

“Man,” he laughed, tying a rope around Patrick’s ankles, “this is gonna be great.”

Patrick tried to get away, but the second set of hands cinched the knot tight.

A sharp yank, and he was hauled upside down.

The rush of blood to his head was instant, his vision blurring at the edges.

Patrick tried to speak, but his words fell apart in his throat. His friend. The only person who’d ever really talked to him, who’d ever cared?—

No. It’s all a lie.

“Monty…why?” The words barely escaped his mouth.

Monty’s grin stretched wider. “Because I can.”

Crouching, he gripped Patrick’s head between his hands—not roughly, but almost fondly, like an older brother about to wrestle a kid into a headlock.

But this wasn’t a game.

It had never been a game.

A second pair of hands yanked Patrick’s arms backward, tying his wrists together. He barely resisted.

He was too weak.

Too stupid.

Too wrong about everything.

“Come on, man.” Monty booped Patrick’s nose, still smiling, still thrilled before stepping several feet away. “Make the cut. I want to watch.”

Before Patrick could even process the order, a sharp, cold kiss of metal pressed against Patrick’s neck.

“Do it now!”

Pain.

Not sharp, not like he expected. A rush. A flood.

Scalding heat gushed over his face, his hair, his chest.

The scent of copper exploded in his nose as thick, pulsing streams poured from his neck, gravity dragging it down in sheets, in torrents.

He jerked, and the movement sent fresh waves of blood cascading over his face, filling his ear, drenching his shirt.

His vision swam, bursting with red and gold spots, and his heartbeat thundered in his ears.

It was almost louder than Monty’s laughs.