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You were walking home in the wrong hour, which is the same thing as being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The men who took you off that street had a camera, a live feed, and an audience whose donations decided what happened next. Deylen Masten was supposed to be the face of it. Instead he killed the stream, walked you out of that room himself, and sat down on the step outside your door.
The street was quieter than usual, washed in the amber glow of tired streetlights. Most of the shops had already closed, their windows dark, leaving only the occasional convenience store and distant headlights to break the stillness. It had been a long shift—longer than expected—and the ache in your legs reminded you with every step home. The night air was cool against your skin, carrying little more than the rustle of leaves and the distant hum of traffic. You checked the time almost absentmindedly. Late. Much later than you usually walked this route. The neighborhood wasn't empty, but it felt empty. No conversations drifted from nearby houses. No dogs barked. Even the wind seemed quieter than it should've been. Your footsteps echoed softly against the pavement. Then... another set. One. Two. Three. Close. Before you could turn around, something collided with your back. Strong arms wrapped around you with practiced speed, pinning your own against your sides before you could react. A startled gasp barely escaped before a broad hand closed firmly over your mouth. Your heart lurched as you struggled, kicking backwards, twisting with everything you had. Whoever held you barely moved, simply tightening their grip as if they'd expected every desperate reaction. A second figure stepped into view for only a moment. Tall. Broad shoulders. A hood pulled low. A pair of calm gray eyes met yours—not angry, not excited... simply watching. The edges of your vision blurred. The streetlights stretched into streaks of gold. Your body grew heavier. Your thoughts became sluggish. Then darkness swallowed everything. Something cold pressed against your cheek. Consciousness returned slowly, dragged upward through layers of exhaustion and confusion. Your head pounded. Your mouth felt dry. Every muscle protested as you instinctively tried to move. Concrete answered you. Your legs refused to obey you. Your breathing quickened. Blinking away the haze, the room gradually came into focus beneath bright white lights. Concrete walls. Concrete floor. No windows. You were on the floor where they had set you down, and nothing was holding you there. Nobody had put a hand on you since the street. Your eyes darted around the room. To your right, a small kitchen occupied one wall. A sink. An oven. A single counter with cupboards above and below it. Everything spotless. To your left, partially hidden behind a folding screen, stood a toilet and small sink. Behind you, as far as you could twist your head, sat a simple gray couch facing nothing at all. No television. No windows. Just empty space. Just beyond it stood a large bed, neatly made with crisp white sheets. A tall wardrobe stood beside it. A bookshelf filled almost an entire wall, packed tightly with novels, textbooks, and games. Everything looked... lived in. Maintained. As though someone expected this room to be occupied for a very long time. Then you heard it. A lock disengaging. A heavy steel door slowly swung inward. The first man stepped inside. He filled the doorway before he even crossed it. Tall enough that he seemed to duck instinctively beneath the frame, broad shoulders stretching the fabric of a fitted black shirt. Heavy boots echoed across the floor with slow, measured steps. His dark hair was neatly pushed back, and the trimmed beard along his jaw only sharpened the severity of his features. Cold gray eyes settled on you, studying every frantic movement without the slightest hint of surprise. Behind him came a second man carrying a compact camera mounted on a stabilizer. Younger. Smaller—but still taller than most people. Hazel eyes. Soft brown hair that refused to stay neatly in place. He adjusted the camera almost absentmindedly before glancing toward the older man. For a brief second, neither of them spoke. The older man finally broke the silence. “They're awake.” The younger brother looked through the camera screen, checking the image before giving a small nod. “Audio's working.” The first man took another slow step forward, stopping just outside arm's reach. “Good.” The younger one reached toward a table just inside the room and pressed a single button. A small red light above one of the ceiling cameras flickered to life. Live. The man in the black shirt watched that light, then crossed and pressed the button again. “Dark,” he said, and it was. He did not take your arm. He held the steel door open and stood aside. “Nobody in this building touches you. I am behind you the whole way out, and I do not put a hand on you once.” He did not. It was his car that took you home, and on your own step he said the rest of it flatly, like a bill he had already agreed to pay. “I was supposed to host that feed tonight. Instead I killed it, and Hallum will want a figure for it. Go in. Call whoever you want to call. I am staying out here.” Then he sat down on the step outside your door with his back against the frame, and he had not moved by the time the sky went gray.