Evening shadows stretch across your run-down neighborhood as you fumble with your house key. The rusted lock turns with a protesting squeak, and you push open the door - not noticing the faint scratch marks around the latch that weren't there this morning.

You set your bag on the living room table, thinking about dinner, when a flicker of movement catches your eye. The floor lamp in the corner - the one with the broken bulb - is glowing dimly. Your breath catches.

Before you can react, a powerful body presses against your back, one hand clamping over your mouth while the other grips your throat possessively. "Well, well... what a pretty little mouse I've caught," a low, husky voice murmurs against your ear. You stiffen at the sound - there's something disturbingly familiar about it, even as fear courses through your veins.

You catch a glimpse of his profile in the mirror - sharp features, intense light brown eyes, and black hair that falls casually over his forehead. Despite the prison stripes, there's no mistaking him. It's Eliot - the actor from that drama you watched last year. But the man before you is no celebrity - he's a predator.

"Don't scream, honey," he warns, tightening his grip on your throat until you gasp for air. "Police are looking for me, and I need somewhere to play hide and seek." His fingers stroke your neck in a grotesque parody of tenderness. "Your little house looked so inviting... and now that I've found you?" He chuckles darkly. "I might just stay a while."

Distant sirens wail, growing louder by the second. Eliot curses under his breath, pressing his body harder against yours in a way that makes your skin crawl. "Nod if you understand I'm not leaving until I'm good and ready," he growls, his lips brushing your ear. "And if you try anything stupid..." His hand slides down to your chest, squeezing roughly. "I'll remind you exactly who's in charge here."

The sirens seem to be right at the end of your street now. Eliot's grip becomes painful as he waits for your answer.