Listen to Do I Wanna Know by Arctic Monkey

I woke up to cold stone against my back, the air damp and musty, the scent of mildew clinging to everything around me. My head was pounding, my vision still blurred from the blow. As I tried to move, I realized I couldn't. My wrists were bound tightly with rope, the rough fibers biting into my skin, leaving little room for any movement. My ankles were bound as well, and I was seated on a hard, cold floor in what appeared to be a dark, spacious basement.

But this was no ordinary basement. The walls were lined with chains, old rusted tools scattered about, and the air was thick with a sense of fear that seemed to seep from every crack. I could feel it in my bones—the unmistakable, suffocating presence of a place built for torture.

Panic clawed at me from the inside out. I screamed, my voice raw from crying and screaming earlier, but my throat felt like it was closing up. I yanked at the ropes binding my wrists, desperation filling every fiber of my being.

"Help! Someone! Please! Help!" My voice cracked as I struggled, tears slipping down my face, mixing with the dirt and grime that covered me. My body trembled with fear, but I refused to give in, fighting against the ropes that held me captive.

Footsteps echoed from the distance, slow and deliberate, getting closer with each passing second. I froze, my heart racing in my chest. I could barely catch my breath, the weight of the fear pressing down on me like a vice.

And then he appeared.

That same man from last night.

He was just as tall, just as impossibly gorgeous. His presence filled the room with a kind of intensity that was almost suffocating. His dark suit was perfectly tailored to his frame, as sharp and sleek as his demeanor. His hair was slicked back, every strand in place. He looked like he had just stepped out of a movie, but there was nothing romantic about it. Nothing even human.

The first three buttons of his shirt were left open, exposing a dark, intricate tattoo that snaked around his neck and down his chest. The ink, bold and raw, only added to his aura of danger. His jawline was carved from stone, his eyes cold and piercing, the sort of eyes that could freeze you in your place.

He was impossibly handsome, but there was something about him—something about the way he looked at me—that made my stomach churn. The way his lips curled into a taunting smirk. The way his gaze never wavered, as if I were nothing more than an interesting little puzzle for him to figure out.

I shook with fear, my tears continuing to fall, my voice hoarse as I pleaded, "I won't tell anyone. I swear. Just... just let me go."

His expression never changed, his eyes locked onto mine, studying me with an unreadable intensity.

He didn't say a word.

Instead, a man appeared from the shadows, bringing a chair for him. The man didn't speak either, just silently setting it down in front of me, making sure it was positioned perfectly.

The man in the suit slid into the chair with a grace that made everything seem effortless. He rested his elbows on his knees, his fingers intertwined, his gaze never leaving mine. There was a calm in him that made the air feel even thicker, the silence louder, as though he was studying every emotion, every little tremble that passed through me.

I wanted to scream, to beg for my life, to tell him anything that would make him stop. But all I could do was sit there, my hands bound, my heart beating erratically in my chest.

My lips trembled as I pleaded again, desperate now. "Please, I won't tell anyone what I saw. I swear I won't."

He still said nothing. His silence was unbearable, colder than anything I had ever felt before. His eyes bored into mine, and for a moment, I could have sworn that I saw amusement flicker behind them like he was enjoying this.

Then, with an accent thick as ever, he spoke, each word wrapped in a slow, deliberate cadence. "Who are you, and who sent you?"

"My name is Amari. I booked the villa on a travel website. I swear I had no idea what was going on here. I'll leave. I promise, I'll leave right now and I won't tell anyone what happened. I didn't see anything. I—" My words felt like they were choking me, but I pushed them out, desperate for him to believe me.

"Why are you here?" His voice was low, almost too calm. It made my skin crawl. His eyes never left mine, drilling into me, searching for something—anything—that didn't align with the story I was desperately trying to hold onto.

"I came for a vacation... just two weeks, that's it but I'll leave right now."

He leaned in slightly, his gaze darkening, his expression unreadable. "You think I'm stupid, don't you?" He leaned closer, towering over me like a predator assessing its prey. His crisp black suit, perfectly tailored, seemed like an insult in this dingy basement.

His voice was almost a whisper, but it hit me like a blow to the chest. "I know you're a reporter."

My heart dropped into my stomach. I opened my mouth, but the words got stuck, my breath coming out in ragged gasps.

"I—I am, back in America. But I swear, I'm not here for work, just for vacation—"

"You don't get it, do you?" His voice finally cut through the silence. It was low, rough, like a growl from the deepest part of him. It was dark, laced with something dangerous, but also... controlled. "You're already in deeper than you realize."

I trembled, trying to shrink into myself, to disappear, but his gaze held me in place. His words were like a trap closing around me, tightening with every passing second. My chest felt like it was going to burst.

"Please don't kill me." I begged.

"I'm not going to kill you... yet," he added, the edge of his words curling like a serpent's hiss.

I stared at him, my mind spinning, trying to understand, trying to find some escape, some way out of this nightmare.

But all I saw in those eyes was darkness.

He looked down at me, his gaze cold and calculating, the air thick with tension.I swallowed hard, trying to fight the panic rising in my chest.

"I didn't know—" I started, but he cut me off, his fingers tapping impatiently against the armrest of the chair.

"Who sent you. I know you're not just here for some vacation," he demanded, his voice tightening. "I don't like to be lied to. And worst of all," he paused, looking me over, his lips curling into something that resembled a dangerous smile. "I hate moles."

His words hit me like a punch in the gut. My chest tightened, my throat burning as I tried to make him understand, tried to get the truth out. I cried, my voice cracking. "I didn't know anything! I swear! I booked the villa online. It was just supposed to be a vacation, nothing more! I'm not a spy, I'm not a reporter for anyone. I'm telling you the truth!"

I looked up, pleading with him, hoping my desperation would reach him, but his expression didn't change. He sat there, like a wall, unmoving, unyielding. He wasn't buying it.

His gaze turned colder, if that was even possible. "I don't like to hurt women, love," he said softly, almost tenderly, like he was offering me a false sense of comfort. "But don't make me change that. Lying to me?" His voice dropped into a harsh growl. "That's the worst mistake you could make."

The weight of his words hit me like a ton of bricks. His cold, detached demeanor made me feel smaller than I'd ever felt in my life.

"I'm not lying," I whispered, barely audible, tears streaming down my face. "Please, I just want to go home. Please let me go."

The silence between us stretched unbearably, wrapping around me like a suffocating fog. His eyes were unyielding, like two cold, sharp daggers drilling into my skin. I could barely breathe under the weight of his gaze.

Then, without warning, he got up. His chair screeching across the floor as he kicked it with a sudden, violent motion. The sound made me jump, my heart leaping into my throat. I froze, eyes wide with terror as I stared up at him, unable to look away. His movements were smooth, predatory. He shrugged out of his suit jacket, letting it fall to the chair with a quiet thud. My heart skipped in my chest, panic surging through my veins. What was he going to do now?

The gun appeared in his hand like it had always been there, cold and gleaming under the harsh light. My breath hitched as he pointed it directly at me, the barrel aimed squarely at my forehead. My whole body tensed, a jolt of ice racing down my spine.

"I—I'm not spying on you," I choked out, my voice trembling, barely a whisper. I had to get through to him, to make him believe me. "I swear, I just booked this villa online. I didn't know... I didn't know anything about what's going on here."

He didn't say a word at first, just stared at me with those cold, dead eyes. His lips twisted into a sneer, and without a word, he leaned forward slightly, his eyes darkening even further.

"I'm losing my patience here, love," he muttered, low and dangerously calm.

"I'm not lying!" I yelled, my frustration breaking free, the words spilling out in a panicked rush.

"I'm going to give you one more chance to tell me the truth," he said, his voice smooth but laden with an undercurrent of deadly calm. "Who sent you?" I heard the unmistakable click of the safety being disengaged.

"No one. You have to believe me, I'm not a spy. I don't know anything about you or this... this shitty place." My words spilled out, frantic and raw. "You think I'd book this place if I knew—"

"Enough!" He cut me off, his voice sharp, the frustration clear in his tone. I saw the way his jaw clenched, the subtle tremor of anger behind his control.

His eyes narrowed. "I'll give you ten hours. Ten hours to come clean and tell me the truth. Trust me, you don't want to find out what happens after." He trailed off, letting the threat hang in the air.

Without another word, he turned, the click of his expensive shoes echoing on the concrete floor. He reached the set of steps leading to the door then paused, muttering something in Italian under his breath—something harsh, something venomous.

The door slammed shut behind him, and I was left in the crushing silence, shaking uncontrollably, my heart still pounding in my chest. The weight of his words—the gun still lingering in the air—haunted me, and I knew deep down, that ten hours wasn't nearly enough time to escape whatever nightmare I'd just walked into.