Stockholm Syndrome [GALATEA]

Black.

There’s nothing but a low throb at the base of my skull and a dull ringing in my ears. At first, I think I might still be asleep—floating in some dark, cold dream. But I can’t move my arms or my legs. My wrists burn, bound tightly together, something sharp cutting into my skin. Panic claws its way through the haze in my mind.

My head rolls to the side, the pounding sensation growing stronger. Every inch of me feels heavy and wrong. The air smells of gasoline, stale and thick, mingling with something metallic.

The faint hum of tires against the road seeps in, vibrating up through my spine.

A van? I’m in a van.

I try to swallow, but my throat is raw—dry. Like I’ve been out for a while. I take a deep breath, commanding myself to stay calm. Everything is wrong.

My pulse races, pounding against whatever binds my wrists. No chance of using my arms. I shift, but my legs are just as useless, tied up at my ankles and knees.

I roll to my back, relieving some of the dull ache that cuts through my hip joint.

Think, Zara. Think.

The last thing I remember is walking back from work. I touch my hands to my thighs and feel the smooth denim of my jeans. Good—I’m still wearing my pants.

I feverishly try to piece together what happened, but there’s nothing there. Just a gaping, terrifying hole in my memory.

I don’t know how long I’ve been out, but if I’m not at the gym at eight, Maya will wonder where I am. She’ll call, and I won’t answer. Surely she’ll know something’s off—I never bail on her.

Good. She’ll start looking for me. It won’t be long until they figure out I’ve been taken, because let’s face it—that’s what’s happening here.

I always knew this was a possibility. As the only daughter of the owners of Aurum Labs, I’m pretty much walking around with a target on my back, or at least it feels like it. Every time a gaze lingers on me a second too long, I feel as if I’m being sized up for an abduction. And here we are.

Alright—time to focus.

The van is moving steadily, and the road seems smooth. We’re likely on a highway or interstate. Maybe I can keep track of all the turns we take, so I can figure out how to get back if I ever get out. No—when I get out.

I listen close for anything that might be useful. There’s the steady hum of the engine and the muffled sound of music somewhere distant. The radio is on—this fucker is listening to music. I hold my breath, trying to make out any more relevant sounds.

There. Voices. They’re hard to make out through the thick partition that separates the front seats from the cargo area where I am, but it’s definitely multiple people. Fuck, that lowers my chances of fighting my way to freedom.

I roll back to my side, and futilely try to get up again.

“She’s awake.”

My blood runs cold. There’s a man in the back here with me. I freeze, tense every muscle, anticipating the blow that’ll likely follow, but it doesn’t come.

“Hello, rich kid,” a different voice calls out. Its mocking tone makes me want to vomit, and I have to suppress the urge to do so. “How was your nap?”

I stay frozen, frantically trying to figure out where to go from here. Do I reply? Beg for my life? Pretend I’m still unconscious?

“Go back to sleep.”

It’s that first voice again, coming from my left. I try to focus my eyes, and as they slowly get used to the dark, I’m able to make out the silhouette of a massive man, backlit by the minimal light that seeps in through the crack between the double doors. I swallow hard, my throat still dry and scratchy.

Fuck, I’m in so much trouble.

I stay silent, blinking back tears of frustration and self-pity as I lay my head back on the cold floor.

I flare my nostrils as I breathe in, filling my lungs with that faintly metallic scent. Is that blood? Is it my blood?

I close my eyes and do a quick mental scan of my body. My head is throbbing—I’ve definitely been hit, but I’m not sure I’m bleeding. My hair doesn’t stick to my face, which I’m guessing is a good sign. The binds on my wrists, knees, and ankles are biting into my flesh, but aren’t sharp enough to break skin.

“What do you want?” I rasp, my voice rough as sandpaper. I cough and try to sit up, but immediately fall over again. The van is taking a turn—are we getting off the highway?

“Shut the fuck up.” It’s the guy to my right again—the mocking one.

“Please,” I try, “I know you think my parents are rich—” My sentence is cut short by a sharp pain shooting through my thigh. I bite my lip to keep from crying out. The asshole kicked me.

“I said shut the fuck up.”

I look at him, squinting my eyes to make out any of his features in the dusty darkness. He’s wearing a hood, which makes it even harder to see, but I can faintly make out the outlines of his face. It seems distorted somehow—he’s wearing a mask. Is that Ghostface?!

“You’ve got the wrong girl,” I plead, “my parents—”

“That’s it,” Ghostface cuts me off again, and I can tell by the shuffling sounds he’s getting up. Before I can even fully register what’s going on, a sudden burst of agony sears through my temple, and everything goes black again.

The next time I open my eyes, I’m being hauled out of the van and roughly carried down a dirt road. I can hear the crunching sound of gravel beneath my abductor’s shoes as he walks us down the path. I can’t see where we’re going—these fuckers put a bag over my head.

I take shallow breaths, trying not to freak out over the suffocating feeling. The scent of old sweat drifts into my nose, and combined with my nauseating headache, it takes everything I have not to hurl my guts out.

I drift in and out of consciousness as the chirping of crickets transitions into the creaking of floorboards, and I vaguely register being carried down stairs.

I’m tossed onto a mattress, and a sharp metallic clang echoes through the room. Then the footsteps retreat into the distance before I hear them ascending stairs, and a door shuts. I hear at least three locks click into place.

And then I’m alone, locked away in some godforsaken basement.