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First Meeting
Daphne was having the worst day ever. Between her chaotic family and her grumpy university professor, her brain felt like it had been chewed up and spat out. On the bus ride home, she plugged in her earphones, turned on her favorite playlist, and pulled out her sketchbook. As usual, her pencil moved on its own—drawing strange things like a beach full of blood, a leafless tree, and a skeleton curled up in a corner. She never learned how to draw. It just… happened. Drawing was her way of surviving this messed-up world.
It had been over two hours now. That was way too long.
"Sir, it's taking longer than usual," she asked the driver.
"The main road's under construction. Had to take a longer route," he replied briefly, then went quiet.
Only a few people were on the bus—four women, two men, and now her.
She sighed. Great. One more reason to scream. But instead of exploding, she bit her tongue. At least this delay gave her an excuse to avoid going back to that so-called "home"—a house made of stone and silence, filled with people who were technically her family but felt more like strangers: her father, uncle, aunt, and cousins.
Just as she was starting to relax a little, the bus slammed to a sudden stop. Daphne jolted in her seat, nearly dropping her sketchbook.
"What happened?" one of the ladies asked.
"I… I don't know. I was driving normally, and then these cars pulled up in front of us," the driver stammered.
Daphne stood to look out the window. Men dressed in all black were walking toward the bus—completely covered, like movie villains. One spoke to the driver, who then got out without a word. Two of the men stepped inside the bus.
Panic hit her like a brick.
Daphne, trying to stay calm, reached for her phone under her jacket and dialed 112. But her music was still connected to her headphones, which were dangling. The ringtone blasted like a siren.
One of the men turned to her immediately.
"What are you doing?" he snapped, striding straight toward her.
"N-Nothing," she stammered.
He snatched the phone from her hand. "Trying to play hero, huh?"
He said something to his partner and walked off the bus.
"I-I wasn't calling the police. I swear—I don't even know how it happened!" she babbled, heart racing, words tripping over themselves. She tried to sound convincing. "I... uh... some thieves broke into my house!"
He raised an eyebrow. "Really? And how do you know that?"
"M-my aunt called me."
"When?"
"Uh… yesterday. No. This morning. No—just now."
His mouth twitched. Then he laughed. And not the evil villain laugh she was expecting—it was deep, smooth, and confusingly... nice? Like the sound you'd hear in a dream, not sure if you're about to be saved or dragged deeper into the nightmare.
"I-it's the truth!" she said, trying to sound confident, even though she was shaking.
He smirked. "You've got guts saying that with a straight face. Let's test how bold you really are. Boys—take her to the car. And I mean my car."
Wait—what?!
Her stomach dropped. "W-What?" she whispered, too low for anyone to hear.
"Move!" he barked, then left the bus.
The men grabbed her arms. She struggled, pleaded, cried. "No! Please—stop! I'm sorry! Don't take me! Let me go!"
But no one helped. Not the passengers. Not even the universe.
They dragged her to a sleek black Porsche and shoved her inside. She immediately reached for the door handle—but before she could pull it open, a hand grabbed hers. Firm. Strong.
She turned—and there he was. The man who had questioned her. Black turtleneck, black jeans, black everything. Only his skin was pale, his eyes dark and deep and terrifying. Handsome in a way that made you forget to breathe.
He pointed a gun at her head.
"If you scream again, I'll blow your brains out," he said calmly.
She froze. Tears slid down her cheeks.
"Why… why are you doing this? I'm not rich," she whispered. "No one will pay a ransom. Please… let me go."
He leaned back in his seat. "Relax. I'm not after money."
"Then what do you want?" she asked, still trembling, her small brown eyes filled with confusion and fear.
He tilted his head, almost amused. "You."
"What?" Her voice cracked.
"I found you… interesting."
"Interesting?" she repeated, horrified. "For what? I'm not even pretty! My figure's all wrong, I eat terribly, I barely have anything anyone wants!"
He laughed again. It shouldn't have made her heart skip, but it did. Even in this nightmare.
"You watch too many thriller movies," he said with a teasing smile.
"Maybe I do," she mumbled.
"If you're not going to sell my organs or my soul or whatever, what are you going to do with me?"
He leaned closer. "I'll let you know when I figure it out."
"What kind of logic is that?! You can't just kidnap people without a plan!"
"I can and I did," he said casually. "And by the way, nice acting back there. You almost had me convinced."
"Acting?" Daphne blinked. "What do you mean?"
He looked her up and down slowly, twice. "You. I didn't think you of all people could pull something like that."
"I'm not that kind of girl," she snapped. "Whatever you're thinking, I'm not."
"You are," he said, eyes glinting. "You're the one who…"
He stopped mid-sentence and smirked.
"What? What am I?"
He didn't answer. Just grinned at her again—one of those one-eyebrow-raised grins that made her want to punch him and swoon at the same time.
"Don't… please. I'm not pretty enough for this. I don't have what other girls have," she whispered, more confused than scared now.
His laughter exploded again. Louder this time.
"What? Why are you laughing?!" she demanded, pouting.
"Your imagination is impressive," he said between laughs. "But yeah… you're definitely not in good shape."
"Excuse me?" she narrowed her eyes, giving him a dramatic side-eye.
Then silence fell between them. They both suddenly realized how weird this situation was. He turned toward the window, still smiling. Daphne sat frozen, wondering if this dangerous stranger was actually… less terrifying than the life she had back home.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
And just like that—her mind began to spiral again.
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