Sunlight filtered through the cracks in the window frame, and fine dust danced like glitter in the pale shafts of light. From outside came the chirping of birds—perhaps a nightingale, perhaps a skylark.
The glow behind my eyelids urged me awake. Slowly, I opened my eyes. The blurred outlines around me began to take shape, and my drifting consciousness returned, reluctantly, to reality.
I tried to stretch my arms and legs— but something held them down, firm and unyielding.
…Huh? Oh. Right.
An unfamiliar ceiling. A room I had never seen. And myself—tied up, restrained. The sight pierced through the fog of my memory, and last night came rushing back in a single, crushing wave.
The robbery at the jewelry store. The van speeding through the night. The factory deep in the mountains, and the ropes. The bite of them against my skin, the coarse fabric jammed into my mouth, the suffocating weight of it all— none of it had ended.
Bound upright to the pillar through the long, cold night, my joints creaked with a dull grind, my muscles locked like frozen steel. A deep ache spread between my shoulder blades; the back of my neck had gone stiff and hard as stone. My arms tingled, my legs felt heavy— lead pressed deep into flesh.
I twisted again, searching for a weakness in the knots, but the ropes refused to move. The tighter I struggled, the deeper they bit. Each breath scraped out thin and shallow, a dry wheeze rasping through my throat. Helplessness settled heavy in my chest.
Then—something caught the light. In the corner of the room, a faint gleam flickered. A clear glass bottle lay on its side, reflecting the morning sun.
And there, in that fragile reflection, I saw myself. My freshly pressed suit was wrinkled and grimy, the white shirt beneath it stained with sweat and dust. The twisted necktie clung around my throat like a noose waiting to tighten. My hair was disheveled, my face pale, my eyes hollow, unfocused.
Gagged and bound, staring at my own reflection— the sight was unbearable. I turned my eyes away.
Then, from outside, I heard it — the low vroom of an engine. A moment later came the crunch of tires pressing into gravel.
Who is it? The robbers—or someone coming to save me?
My heart pounded—thud, thud—so loud it filled my ears. Tension and fear rushed through my veins, spreading like fire beneath the skin.
A sharp metallic clang rang out as the door swung open. My brief hope shattered: the masked men stepped inside. The same three who had abducted me. Their boots struck the floor with heavy thuds, stirring a cloud of dust into the air. They stopped in front of me; one reached forward and began yanking at the gag in my mouth. As the cloth was pulled free, air rushed into my dry throat. I coughed hard, gasping, my breath rasping through the pain.
The door clanged again behind them—iron against iron. No rescue. Only reality, solid and merciless. The three men from yesterday stood before me, unhurried, unreadable.
Their footsteps echoed; dust drifted in the pale light. One man came closer without a word and tore the cloth from my mouth. Air hissed down my throat—whoosh—and I doubled over, coughing. My breathing turned ragged, my chest throbbed, each heartbeat a dull ache inside my ribs.
Then one of them pulled out a plastic bottle of mineral water. He twisted the cap open with one hand and pressed the mouth of the bottle against my lips, forcing water down my throat.
At first, I tried to resist—but the dryness was unbearable. Cold water slid down, smooth and sharp, stinging my gums before trickling deep into my throat. The shock of it made me shiver; in my stomach, the liquid landed with a quiet plop. That icy flow, cruelly enough, reminded me that I was still alive.
Another man produced a soft pouch—some kind of gel drink for easy nutrition. Like before, he pressed it against my lips and squeezed. A sweet, faintly sour taste spread across my tongue and slid down my throat. Little by little, the hunger eased—but the act itself felt degrading, like a hatchling being fed by the beak of a parent bird. Shame burned in my chest, hot and silent.
While they fed me water and gel, the third man began untying the ropes. They creaked—tight, tight—and then, at last, loosened with a snap. Blood surged through my arms in a rush, pins and needles flaring as life returned. The skin around my wrists was deeply marked, raw, a thin trace of blood oozing from the friction burns.
Instinctively, I rubbed my wrists, trying to ease the stiffness and pain. That small, trembling motion almost felt like freedom— but only for a moment.
…Thank God. I thought—at last, they’re letting me go. But the moment of hope vanished almost instantly. The man who had loosened my ropes twisted my arms hard behind my back again and, without a word, dragged me toward the next room.
It was a restroom. There was no sign of cleaning—just the sharp, acrid sting of ammonia in the air. The toilet bowl was ringed with black grime, and the floor was slick, faintly sticky underfoot.
One of the men barked something in a foreign language and shoved me inside before slamming the door. I couldn’t understand the words, but from his tone I knew what he meant: Use it.
Maybe it was the water and gel they had forced into me earlier, or maybe the relief of being untied, even for a moment, but a sudden pressure welled up inside me—urine, hunger, exhaustion all at once. I sat down obediently on the toilet seat. The cold porcelain pressed against my thighs; the stench burned the back of my throat. While I relieved myself, my eyes darted around the room.
Now—if I’m going to escape, this might be my only chance.
But the small window high near the ceiling was too narrow, sealed with iron bars. The sunlight streaming through it looked like hope, yet it was nothing more than a cruel crack in a prison wall.
I searched my pockets for anything useful. All I found was a crumpled handkerchief, twisted and damp. My briefcase—holding my phone and wallet—had fallen when they attacked me. Which meant the police couldn’t track my phone, couldn’t trace me here. No one knew this place existed—no one but me, and them.
A heavy despair welled up from my chest. The last thread connecting me to the world outside had been cut. I was alone. Completely alone.
BANG! BANG! BANG! Suddenly, the door rattled under a series of violent blows. The man outside shouted, his voice laced with anger. I must have taken too long.
Panicking, I pulled up my pants and opened the door. The moment I stepped out, one of them grabbed my arm and yanked me back toward the main room. The other two were waiting, ropes already in hand.
They’re going to tie me again.
The thought came, but I didn’t resist. My will had drained away somewhere between fear and exhaustion. I turned around and offered my arms behind me, surrendering.
Expressionless, they began their work—methodical, mechanical. The ropes coiled around my chest, thighs, and ankles, tightening with every pull. A cloth was shoved deep into my mouth, then bound in place with another length of rope. Its damp, sour smell filled my nose; my breathing turned shallow, a thin whistle escaping between my teeth.
Once I was fixed to the pillar again, one of them tugged at the knots, checking the tension, gripping my arms, shaking my shoulders. Their touch left a trace of heat on my skin—an echo of humiliation.
Satisfied, they turned and left as silently as they’d come. The door closed. Outside, the van’s engine rumbled low, then faded into the distance. What remained were the sounds of nature—the chirping of birds, the hum of insects, the whisper of leaves. Those gentle sounds only made my isolation more complete.
I tried to move my arms, to loosen the ropes, but they didn’t budge. I had learned my lesson—struggling only tore the skin and strained the joints. So I stopped, breathing shallowly, conserving what little strength I had left.
Someone will come. Someone has to find me.
I told myself that, quietly, inside my own head. Then I closed my eyes. And in the depth of that silence, time began to drip—slow, measured, endless.