By the time morning arrives, heralded by the soft chirping of birds, I almost forget the horror of the previous night. The memory is distant, hazy, until I roll over and the weight of it crashes back into me. My head feels light, almost detached. I blink hard, trying to focus, but the world around me looks duller, grayer—like the color has been drained from it.

No sooner do I sit up than my phone vibrates on the nightstand. I reach for it, my hands still shaking slightly from the lingering dread. A message flashes on the screen from a blocked number:

Good morning, Sunshine.

I stare at the message in disbelief. A blocked number. How can they send me a text? And how do they know I'm awake? A cold shiver runs down my spine. My hand hovers over the screen as I try to think of how to respond. But before I can type anything, a voice interrupts my thoughts.

"Who's that?"

I jump, nearly dropping the phone. Felicity is standing at the foot of my bed, watching me with a curious expression. My heart races.

"Why do you care all of a sudden?" I snap, more harshly than I intended.

She shrugs, but her eyes narrow slightly. "You look really bad, that's all. I'm just a little worried about you.... Are you in trouble, Romi?"

Her words catch me off guard. Felicity is rarely concerned about anyone but herself, and this sudden interest feels wrong, like an intrusion. My frown deepens as I try to figure out what she's after.

"I'm... fine. Not in trouble," I lie, my voice too sharp, too defensive.

"Oh, good." She brightens instantly, her concern vanishing as quickly as it appeared. "Just checking."

Before I can ask why she's in my room, she's gone, disappearing back down the hall and the door falling shut behind her. The uneasy feeling lingers even as her footsteps fade away, and I can't help but wonder what she was really doing here. I look around, but nothing seems to be missing. My thoughts are interrupted by another buzz from my phone.

Call Ptolemy.

I hesitate, dread pooling in the pit of my stomach. I don't want to call. I don't want to hear what they have to say. But I also don't want to find out what happens if I disobey. My hand trembles as I dial Ptolemy's number, the last message he sent me was:

Hold on, Romi, I need to take care of something.

The phone rings twice before someone picks up, but it isn't Ptolemy. A distorted, robotic voice comes through the speaker.

"There you are, Romilly."

I swallow hard. "I... yes," I stammer. "Is Ptolemy okay?"

"Why don't you ask him yourself?"

An icon flashes on my screen—FaceTime request. My breath catches, and I hesitantly sit up and accept. The image that appears sends a jolt of horror through me. Ptolemy is tied to a wooden chair, his head hanging limply, gagged and blindfolded with strips of black fabric. He looks fragile under the harsh, single spotlight that barely cuts through the surrounding darkness. Everything around him is pitch black, except for where he sits, like he's trapped in some twisted theater.

"Ptolemy!" I gasp, my voice shaky. I want to reach through the screen, pull him out of that nightmare, but I'm helpless. "Ptolemy, can you hear me? It's Romilly."

He stirs, his head lifting slightly. Something apparently jolts him. "Ah-nmuh-ahh-gagh!" His body jerks against the ropes, struggling to speak, but the gag muffles his words.

"Stop! Ptolemy, stop!" I cry out, even though I know he can't hear me properly. "It's okay," I add, though every word feels like a lie. Nothing about this is okay.

Behind the camera, the distorted voice chuckles, sending a wave of nausea through me. "Oh, is it okay, Romilly?" The mocking tone makes my skin crawl. "You want to see him again, right? You have 29 days remaining to bring us the money. That's New Year's Day at midnight if you haven't already seen. Understood?"

I press my lips together, forcing myself to breathe through the rising panic. My head swims. "Yes," I manage to whisper.

"Good." There's a cold satisfaction in the voice, even through the robotic filter. "Call us when you've collected the money. Ptolemy will be returned once he's worked off some of his debt."

"H-how far along is he?" I ask, hating how weak I sound.

"Oh... not far," they reply, dragging the words out for effect.

I clench my fists, desperate. "How can I help him work it off? What can I do?"

Another burst of laughter comes through the phone, the sound distorted and menacing. "We'll get back to you on that. But for now, Romilly, focus on the task at hand. Don't be late to your classes—wouldn't want to fall behind, would you?"

Before I can respond, the call ends abruptly, leaving me staring at the blank screen. The hollow feeling in my stomach worsens. The image of Ptolemy tied up, gagged, helpless... it plays over and over in my mind, and I don't know how to stop it. My legs feel weak as I force myself to stand, but my stomach protests violently. I haven't gotten the chance to eat since lunch yesterday. I stumble to the kitchen, desperate to find something to eat, but even the thought of food now makes me nauseous.

I open the fridge, but there's nothing for me here. Rancid lunch meat turning green, leftovers from weeks ago, and everything else labeled neatly with Felicity's name. It feels like everything in my life, everything marked as mine, has become dangerous, toxic.

I slam the fridge door shut, my breath coming in shallow bursts. I didn't ask for any of this. I didn't ask to be caught up in whatever twisted game these people are playing. But I'm in it now, and I have no choice but to play along.

The words from the phone call echo in my head: You have 29 days remaining.

And the clock is already ticking.