Playing with the criminals

Sleep, that treacherous little thief, had stolen four hours from her without so much as a receipt.

And it had spent every single one of them irresponsibly.

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It always started the same way—with him.

A man standing at cathedral height—like he owned the sky—in the tallest building of some shiny, nameless city my brain had apparently decided to invent today. Beyond the glass, everything looked tiny and perfectly obedient. Tiny cars crawling down tiny roads, tiny humans scurrying about, clueless that they were being watched from on high. The city below was that kind of well-ordered, prosperous place with excellent infrastructure—and, let’s be honest, a very boring parliament.

The man’s suit was flawless. Immaculate. His shoulders carried the kind of arrogance only someone who’d never once stood in a queue could wear.

Every detail about him was sharp and mercilessly precise—the cut of his jacket, the faint gleam of his cufflinks, and the dangerous stillness in his posture.

But his face? That was a whole other story. It was an insult to clarity, blurred and smudged like a mistake in a painting that even God hadn’t quite figured out how to fix.

Before I could figure out what the hell was wrong with that face, the whole scene evaporated—the office, the skyline, the man—dissolving like sugar in hot water. One blink later, and the dream had redecorated itself completely.

Now where I am , ohh a luxurious bedroom now, dimly lit and warm, heavy with... implication.

Two figures appeared. One man gently pushed another onto the bed—not roughly, but with quiet confidence—and climbed on top. Of course, their faces were blurred—the universe’s way of teasing me by withholding the one piece of information I actually wanted. But what the universe didn’t blur, with almost aggressive clarity, were their torsos. Six-pack abs so sharp they might as well have been carved by Michelangelo himself.

Then the two men began to kiss—slowly, deliberately—the kind of kiss that didn’t follow a schedule or have an agenda. It was built entirely out of patience, warm breath, and the wet, quiet sounds of lips meeting with deliberate, lingering intent—

SCREEECH.

And just like that, the world shattered.

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I woke up with a violent start, nearly toppling off the bus seat like a clumsy acrobat. My heart was pounding so loud I was pretty sure the whole bus could hear it—though luckily, no one did. The driver’s voice cut through the haze like a foghorn blasting at midnight.

“This is the last stop to the city. After this, straight on to the village.”

Wait, what? The last stop? To the city? My brain stalled for a second, then rebooted with an epic facepalm. Four hours. Four hours asleep on a bus headed who-knows-where.

I scrambled off the bus, legs wobbling like jelly. “Shit, shit, shit,” I muttered, trying to collect myself as the bus pulled away, leaving me stranded in what could only be described as the middle of nowhere.

Around me stretched endless green fields dotted with cows and sheep that seemed to be judging me with suspiciously calm expressions. The sun blazed mercilessly, baking me like a forgotten potato in an oven. I checked my phone—1 p.m. Four hours had passed, gone with the wind. At least now I had a perfect excuse not to go to work. Fantastic.

As I scanned the horizon for salvation, a battered car appeared, lumbering down the dusty road like a reluctant beast. A white board perched on its roof—taxi? Maybe.

The closer it got, the more obvious it became that this car had seen better centuries. Dents, rust, scratches—it looked like it had survived a war. The window creaked down, revealing a driver whose smile was... well, let’s say “unsettling” isn’t quite strong enough. It was a grin that screamed, I might be trouble.

“Taxi, miss?” he said, voice oily and slick.

I forced a smile, voice shaky but hopeful. “Yeah. I need to get to the city.”

“Well, I’m headed that way too. Get in,” he said, eyes glinting like a cat who just spotted a canary.

My inner alarm bells were ringing like mad, but no other cars were in sight. The sun was roasting me alive. I had no choice. I climbed into the back seat.

And then I saw it. A coil of rope, and next to it, a blade gleaming wickedly in the sunlight.

Great. Just great.

My brain immediately went to worst-case scenario mode: kidnapper. Murderer. Possibly a serial killer with a flair for dramatic entrances.

“Miss? You coming or what?” His voice was impatient now, and then—click—the sickening sound of the blade flicking open.

“Get in. Fast. Before it’s too late, miss.”

I slammed the door shut, fumbling for the lock. Click. The engine roared, and we lurched forward. My heart was hammering so loud I was sure he could hear it. Or worse—use it as a soundtrack for whatever twisted plan he had.

The first hour was surprisingly calm. The guy drove like a reasonably competent human being. No wild swerves. No sudden brakes. I dared to glance at him through the rearview mirror, trying to convince myself he was just a creepy but harmless taxi driver.

And then I remembered. That man. The one from my dream—the one in the tallest building, face always blurred, who had been haunting my sleep for the sixth time now. Like a persistent pop-up ad I couldn’t get rid of.

And just when I thought it couldn’t get weirder, the other dream crashed back into my mind—the one with two men in a bedroom, their faces also blurred, but their six-pack abs clearer than a crystal chandelier. The slow, passionate kiss, the sound of their breathing, the wet press of lips so loud it felt like it was happening right next to my ear.

Yep. Definitely not the kind of thing you want to be daydreaming about on a bus full of strangers.

I tried to push the thoughts away, focusing on the endless fields outside, but the tension in the car thickened like bad gravy. Then, out of nowhere, he started sneaking glances at me through the mirror. Not quick looks—long, calculating stares that made my skin crawl.

I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Hey,” I snapped, voice sharper than I intended, “if you look at me like that one more time, I swear I’ll rip your eyes out.”

He chuckled—a low, creepy sound that made me want to jump out of the moving car—and flicked open the blade again.

“What did you say, miss?” His voice was calm but deadly—like a snake about to strike.

I met his gaze through the mirror, trying not to look like I was about to pee my pants. “Are you seriously planning to slit my throat with that? Because, newsflash, it won’t end well for you.”

Silence fell between us, thick and heavy, broken only by the hum of the engine and my own rapidly beating heart.

This was shaping up to be the worst taxi ride—and the weirdest day—of my life.