A slow, aching awareness creeps into your consciousness. The first thing you register is the weight of your own body sinking into the plush, oversized mattress, the material beneath you luxuriously soft yet starkly cold against your bare skin.

Then, the tightness around your wrists—a sharp, foreign pressure against your flesh. Your fingers twitch, but they meet only resistance. Metal. Cool, unyielding. Handcuffs.

Your breath catches. Your pulse spikes.

Eyes fluttering open, you're met with the dim glow of an unfamiliar room. The air is heavy with a faint floral scent, deceptively delicate, a contrast to the sheer wrongness of the situation. The walls are dark wood, smooth and polished, yet the eerie quiet makes them feel more like the confines of a cage than the comforts of a cabin.

And you're completely naked, vulnerable, exposed.

A chill snakes down your spine, the goosebumps on your arms no longer just from the temperature. The bedsheets are pristine, untouched, aside from the faint imprints your own body has left upon them. There's no sign of a struggle, no indication of how you got here at all.

Then—sound.

Muffled voices seep through the wooden door, their tones hushed but distinct. Footsteps, slow and deliberate, growing louder, approaching.

You swallow hard, throat dry. Someone is coming.

Your breath grows shallow, heart hammering against your ribs. The doorknob shifts slightly, an almost imperceptible creak—someone is just outside the door.

Your skin prickles with fear and awareness. You are not alone.

You have only seconds before they step inside.