It was silent. Dark.
Where am I? The thought looped in my mind, but my mouth was useless—stuffed with fabric that made my jaw ache. I tried to shift, but a sharp fire shot through my wrists and shoulders. My ankles were pinned, and a dull, throbbing sting radiated from the back of my skull.
I began to thrash, rubbing my wrists raw against the restraints, desperate to find a gap in the grip. The more I fought, the more the sting turned into a searing burn.
"Don't move..."
I froze. I wasn't alone. I strained to place the sound, my mind racing with questions I was physically restricted from asking.
"You are going to make it worse." The voice was a rich, mysterious hum that felt as steady and comforting as a warm wool blanket.
Footsteps approached, heavy and rhythmic. I tensed, every nerve ending on high alert, but I was useless. Tied up. Vulnerable. How did I get myself into this mess?
3 Hours Earlier...
"Haa," Miles let out a long sigh. "Finally done with the last report of this file." He threw his arms up, stretching until his spine popped, a small reward for a long day. "I can finally go home. Just need to grab the prints and I'm good to go."
Still mumbling to himself, he took a final sip of his coffee. It was a gift from a colleague who had left hours ago; now, it was stone-cold and bitter. He set the cup down and headed toward the Captain's office, where the communal printer lived. The quiet hum of the machine whirring to life echoed through the empty precinct.
As he drew closer, he stopped. A thin sliver of light was cutting through the crack of the Captain's door.
Miles wasn't the type to just walk by. Curiosity—or perhaps just his internal alarm—tugged at him. Each step toward the office felt heavier than the last. He reached out and pushed the door open.
Nothing. The room was empty.
Wait... did Cap leave his computer on? Miles wondered. He never does that. Not with this many confidential files on the drive.
Behind him, the printer let out a sharp beep, signalling his report was ready.
"I'll just turn it off," Miles muttered, deciding to do his boss a favour. "I'll tell him about it tomorrow."
He stepped into the dark office, the only glow coming from the blue light of the monitor. He walked behind the desk, reaching for the mouse, but his hand froze before he touched it.
Across the screen, a progress bar was crawling forward: 'Documents downloading... 5 Minutes Remaining.'
BAM.
Before Miles could even process the words, a sudden, violent force slammed into the back of his head. The world tilted. His legs gave out, and the blue light of the monitor faded into a spinning black void.
Present...
The footsteps stopped.
Miles couldn't see, but the air in front of him changed—he could feel a presence looming just inches away. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for a blow, a shove, anything. But instead, he felt a touch. A hand reached out, moving behind his ear to the back of his head with a gentleness that was almost more terrifying than a punch.
Miles slowly opened his eyes. His vision was a blurry mess at first, but as it sharpened, he found himself staring at a man kneeling between his bound legs.
The stranger's hair was a deep, goldish-brown that shimmered like actual gold in the thin sliver of light cutting through the room. Gray eyes looked at him through glasses that rested gracefully on the bridge of his nose. His lips were plum and pink—soft-looking, almost delicate—against his skin that looked like it had been bronzed by the sun.
Miles couldn't take his eyes off him, but his brain finally caught up. Miles, get a grip! Are you seriously checking out his beauty right now?! THIS GUY KIDNAPPED YOU! He gave himself a mental wake-up slap, trying to shake the trance.
"I am sure you are wondering who I am," the man said. There it was—that rich, mysterious hum of a voice that felt like a warm wool blanket.
No shit, Sherlock! Miles screamed internally. And I'm wondering how a nerd-looking guy has a voice that deep and warm! If his mouth wasn't stuffed, he would have bitten the man's head off.
"I'm afraid I can't tell you much," the stranger said, looking down at the blindfold now clutched in his hands. "I didn't want to do this to you... I mean, you weren't meant to be in the office." He hesitated, his voice thick with a strange guilt. "And you're a police officer. You're the last person I'd ever want to bring here. But I had no other choice."
Choice?! Miles was raging now. You hit me unconscious, drag me to a hole in the ground, and say you had no choice?
"Do you want to say something?"
Miles nodded frantically. The man leaned in closer, his arms reaching around the back of Miles's head.
"Do not scream... okay?"
Miles nodded again, his heart hammering against his ribs. As the man slowly removed the gag, Miles took a jagged breath, his jaw aching from being forced open for so long. He moved it side-to-side, the pain sharp, but his anger was sharper. The cop in him told him to be cautious, but the man in him was reaching a boiling point.
"Who are you?" Miles's voice came out raspy and raw.
"For your safety and mine, let's just say I'm someone who is helping us both," the man said, locking eyes with him.
"Safety? What about me being tied up is safe?" Miles snapped, his voice rising.
"Look, it's a difficult situation. I didn't want to attack you, but you saw things, and I can't have you causing problems for my mission."
'Mission? '
"Are you insane?!" Miles felt the heat of his fury finally spill over. "You didn't just assault an on-duty officer, you kidnapped me! You broke into a Captain's office!"
"You don't understand. You won't." The man's face went cold as he stood up. "Stay here. If you want to stay alive and safe"
He turned and walked away, leaving Miles drowning in more questions than he'd started with.
Miles finally looked around at his "prison." It was a basement—or a bunker? To his left, shelves were crammed with water, food, and batteries. In the centre sat a high-tech mess: three monitors, a large desk, and a nightmare of wires on the floor that looked like a massive trip hazard. But to the right, sitting near a messy double mattress and a pile of junk food wrappers, was a sleek sports bike, surrounded by tools and grease-stained cloths.
A sports bike? Miles stared at the machine, then at the man's back. He doesn't look like the type who rides those.
To Be Continued...