"Is anyone here? Please, someone help me," I croaked instinctively as my eyes fluttered open.

The strangest thing about darkness is that you never know what lurks in the corners. Is it safe to step forward or backward? What could be waiting on the left or right? Darkness breeds the kind of fear that sinks deep, a fear that leaves you alone with nothing but your racing heart. It's accompanied by an eerie silence, amplifying the tormenting sound of your own pulse throbbing in your ears.

What am I doing here? What am I going through? What's my fate? These essential questions swirled in my head like the wind before a storm.

I couldn't tell how long it had been since the last time I glanced at the wall clock, just before someone had been shot—killed—behind me.

I couldn't recall the last time I'd eaten or drunk anything, apart from the water at Declan Carter's kitchen. Declan! I wondered what kind of hell he was going through back home. I knew my dad wouldn't give him a chance to explain, especially since Declan had bullied me all throughout school.

I felt drained, weak. I didn't have the strength to resist anymore. I knew I would pass out again soon.

Resigned to whatever was coming, I watched the door creak open, two massive shadows emerging from the darkness. And just like the last time, the room suddenly brightened. No human should endure the darkness while alive, I told myself, though I, the captive animal, lay on a plush, king-size bed this time.

For a fleeting second, I wondered how I ended up there. Perhaps those merciless, inhuman faces had tucked me beneath the soft covers. It was hard to comprehend what comfort felt like when you knew you were kidnapped.

Two men walked in, both clad in identical suits, wires hanging from their earpieces. This time, they seemed friendlier. One carried a tray, while the other pulled a sleek silver trolley bag.

"Afternoon, Miss Cheryl. I hope you had a restful sleep," the man with the tray said. My swollen, bloodshot eyes focused on him and his companion, my body tense with apprehension, a wave of panic building inside me.

The closer they approached, the more I feared their intentions.

'Miss Cheryl?' They knew my name. This was all planned. And 'Miss?' That was another level of manipulation. Without thinking, I grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at the man with the tray. Startled, he dropped the tray, scattering juice, fruit slices, and other food all over the floor. I didn't care. I kept up my assault, throwing everything I could reach, pillows, antiques, even the bedside lamp, hoping it'd electrocute them as they deserve.

I might have looked like a madwoman, but I didn't care. I didn't know how else to defend myself. If I were home, I'd grab the pepper spray or aim an unloaded gun, just like my dad had taught me. If this were a legal matter, my mom, a lawyer, would fight for me. But here? Here, I was defenseless. Alone. Trapped. Every attempt at escape was met with gunshots ringing in my ears. My present reality was a nightmare.

Miraculously, my outburst worked, and I managed to drive them out of the room. For the first time in what felt like forever, I smiled. I even almost laughed as they slammed the door shut behind them.

Exhausted, I slid off the bed and cautiously made my way to the thick curtains, finding the windows firmly locked, probably automated.

"There's no escape," I whispered to myself. Beyond the glass, a perfectly manicured field stretched endlessly, like a golf course. Men, dressed just like the ones I'd encountered, patrolled the grounds. They were armed, their rifles slung across their shoulders, a chilling reminder that there was no hope for me. Tears burned my eyes. I was trapped, stranded in the heart of danger.

Hopeless and drained, I turned back toward the lavish, meticulously decorated room.

In the reflection of the mirror, I saw myself, still in my black pants and orange blouse, though they no longer looked new. Bloodstains marred the fabric, a sickening reminder of the man who had been shot mere inches behind me. My hair was a wild mess, my under-eye bags deep and purplish. My lips were dry and chapped, the evidence of dehydration signaling that I might not last much longer.

I was still staring at my reflection when the door creaked open again. This time, three men entered, including one who stood out, the man wearing a black long-sleeve shirt. I knew him instantly.

My throat tightened, my pulse racing. Of all people, I despised him the most. He was ruthless, remorseless. He was the one who had pulled the trigger with no trace of pity in his cold, brown eyes.

His gaze fixed on me, only after sweeping the room and assessing the damage I'd caused. I stood there, trying to look strong, pretending to wield armor when in reality, I was trembling with every shaky breath.

He raised two fingers toward the door, and the other men turned, leaving us alone. The door clicked shut behind them.

I scanned the room frantically for something to defend myself with. My eyes landed on a shard of glass from my earlier rampage, lying on the carpet. But when I looked back at him, he seemed to have noticed my target. We lunged at the same time, both aiming for the weapon. He was faster, stronger. He reached it first, sliding it far out of my reach and pinning me against the bench before I could react.

His hands gripped my wrists, forcing them down by the sides of my head. His legs straddled mine, his face just inches from mine as we both panted, our breath mingling in the small space between us.

"Let me go," I gasped, choking on my words. The last thing I wanted was this proximity to the monster.

"You're not going to do anything stupid," he said, his voice cold and commanding. It wasn't a question.

"Get off me." I struggled, but he was too strong. Tears spilled freely as I glared at him, pouring all my hatred into my eyes. If I couldn't fight back physically, I could at least show him my rage.

He smelled good, I realized, his scent intoxicating. And he looked good, too, aside from the scowl marring his face. But I knew that was how free human smelled and looked.

"I said, you're not going to do anything stupid." He barely finished speaking before I acted on pure instinct. With all the strength I could muster, I drove my knee hard between his legs, hitting his groin with precision.

It worked. He let go of me, doubling over in pain, and I shoved him off with my hands.

Ignoring with winces at the shards of glass embedding themselves into my feet, I scrambled to the door and yanked it open. The hallway was long and ornate, but thankfully empty.

Having no idea which way to go, left or right, I took a slow breath and rubbed my hands over my face. If I was to escape, I needed to be alert, to summon my courage; I had to fight for my survival or risk dying alone in a place where I knew no one, at the mercy of ruthless people.

So, I did what anyone in my position would do, or maybe not: but I played a rhythmic counting game.

With an unsteady index finger and a hoarse, shaky voice, I began, "Ip dip doo, cat got the flu, chicken got the chicken pox, and out goes you."

My finger pointed to the left, so I took the chance and followed the path, leaving a trail of blood from my injured feet on the cold tile floor.

I could barely see, but I pushed myself to keep moving forward. I had to make it out of there. I had to.

At the end of the hall, another corridor stretched before me. Again, I relied on my lucky rhyme: "Ip dip doo, cat got the flu, chicken got the chicken pox, and out goes you."

Once more, I took a left, and within seconds, I stumbled upon a grand double staircase leading down and a single staircase ascending ahead of me.

Swallowing hard, I walked down the hall, my breath shallow, nearly slipping on my own blood. My eyelids felt heavy with each step down the long, golden staircase.

I knew I was on the ground floor when I spotted distant windows revealing the level expanse of green grass outside. I took the final step and halted in my tracks as over thirty men in identical suits and armor fixed their gazes on me. None spoke a word or moved an inch.

Shit! I'm screwed.