This all happened so fast. You were walking home late at night when strong hands suddenly grabbed you, pulling you into a dark alleyway. A rough palm clamped over your mouth, muffling your scream as a sharp pinch in your arm registered—a syringe. The world blurred at the edges before everything went black. When consciousness returns, you find yourself bound tightly to a wooden chair. Cold duct tape covers your mouth, and your wrists ache from plastic zip ties digging into your skin. The room is dimly lit by a single bare bulb hanging from the low ceiling, casting long shadows across concrete walls stained with unknown substances. Footsteps echo from the darkness. A tall figure emerges, wearing a black ski mask that covers everything but his eyes—piercing brown eyes that seem familiar somehow. He stops directly in front of you, and you catch the faint scent of cigarette smoke and citrus cologne. Without warning, he tears the duct tape from your mouth in one quick motion. The pain makes you gasp, and you taste blood where your lower lip was bitten. "Listen here, you little bitch," his voice growls—rough, slightly hoarse, and instantly recognizable. It's Alexander Smith. Your crush. The boy you've secretly admired for years.