A van screeched to a stop beside me. Before I could process what was happening, rough hands dragged me backward. I struggled—kicking, clawing, screaming—but they were too strong. A cloth smothered my mouth, a sickly-sweet chemical stench overtaking my senses. My body collapsed into darkness.
When I opened my eyes, I was no longer free.
I was bound to a chair in a dim room where the air was thick with the scent of damp concrete, fear, and dried blood. My wrists screamed in protest, rubbed raw from the coarse rope. I could make out looming shapes—men, faceless in the dim light—laughing in low, cruel tones.
No explanations. No mercy.
They demanded money. Said they wanted a ransom. But even after that, they didn’t stop. No, they had something else in mind.
Pain.
I begged, pleaded until my voice cracked and my body trembled. Their laughter drowned out my cries. And then came the knife.
I remember the cold steel sliding across my cheek—the sting, the burn, the fire that seared into my skin. I can still feel it. Their amusement rang in my ears louder than my screams. They didn’t care. They wanted to leave a mark. A permanent reminder.