Dyana Rosey woke again to the same rotten light, only this time the room felt smaller, the air heavier. Every breath tasted of dust and something metallic. Sleep had only brought her a thinner veil of oblivion. When she opened her eyes, the ropes cut into her wrists like fresh bruises. The memory of last night unspooled the van, the cloth over her mouth, the muffled panic and with it came a cold, hollow terror that lived behind her ribs.
She tried to count the cracks in the ceiling to keep herself from unraveling. Her throat was raw from screaming; her voice had been drained to a whisper. Outside, muffled engines and the distant rhythm of traffic threaded through the boarded window, proof that the world continued happening beyond these walls a world she might never see again.
A boot heel thudded on the concrete above; voices, rough and bored, drifted through the floorboards. One of the men pushed open the door, leaned in, and for a second she thought she might throw up. He dragged a phone from his pocket and shoved it into the room, forcing Dyana Rosey to look directly at the camera. He tugged at a lock of her hair to make sure the image was clear. She wanted to gouge the screen, to scream until someone, anyone, heard, but her hands were useless.
"Smile, sweetheart," the man sneered. "Show 'em you're fine."
She felt the fingers in her hair like weights. A sudden, sharp yank flashed pain across her scalp and the camera wobbled. The man laughed. Dyana Rosey's vision blurred with tears, but she kept her eyes on the lens, because somewhere she prayed the people who loved her were watching.
***
Back at Bennett Road, Michael's office had become a small command hub. The Metropolitan officers who had arrived were professional and cold-eyed, their radios chattering quietly at the edges of the room. Giselle sat rigid in a visitor chair, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles went white. Michael stood by the window, phone still in his hand, the family photo on his desk a small accusation.
"Sir, we've traced the call as far as we can," an inspector said softly, glancing at a young detective who had been working a laptop. "It's coming from a VOIP number routed through multiple relays. We'll try to narrow it, but it may take time."
Before Michael could answer, the phone on his desk buzzed again. The screen flashed an incoming video call from an unknown number. The room seemed to shrink; everyone's heads turned toward the device as if it had pulled gravity with it.
Michael picked up. The screen filled with a low-quality image: a dimly lit room, a pair of hands, then one of the kidnappers' faces pale, expressionless. The camera swung and, for a moment, all Michael could think was that a sick joke had been filmed to look cruelly real.
"Mr. Michael," the kidnapper said, voice flat and precise. "Listen carefully. Go to the address we're sending you Bennett Road area. Bring the money. Bring it alone. Do not bring the police. Do not tell the police. If you call them or show up with officers your daughter will pay the price."
The room at Bennett Road went very still. Giselle made a small sound, like a suppressed sob. The lead inspector's jaw tightened.
"You're bluffing," Michael said, throat thick. "How do I know she's—"
The kidnapper cut him off by jabbing the screen closer to Dyana Rosey's face so Michael could see how pale she'd become. A hand tightened cruelly in her hair; Dyana's shoulders scrunched with pain. For a horrific second the camera captured her eyes locked on Michael's a mute pleading that obliterated all argument.
"See?" the kidnapper said. "You try to be clever you call the police, you try to trace us publicly and you'll watch her suffer. We'll be watching the phone. You have until sundown to get here."
"Trace it," the inspector snapped. "Don't—"
"Do not trace it!" the kidnapper boomed from the phone, suddenly louder; the sound was like a whip. "If you try to trace us and you arouse suspicion, she dies now. You want your daughter dead on the line? We're not bluffing."
The call ended abruptly. The screen went black, and for a few heartbeats everyone just stared at the blank glass.
"Sir," the inspector said at last, turning to Michael, his voice lower, urgent. "The standard protocol is not to negotiate and to involve specialists but I'm not naïve. They just demonstrated capability and intent. We can run a tail. We can do covert surveillance and try to funnel them. But don't do this alone. If you go without us, you'll give them exactly what they want."
Michael's face was a warzone. His hands clenched. Giselle had started to sob openly now, the sound small and unbearable. Michael swallowed and looked at his wife, then at the officers.
"We'll need to confirm whether the address they send is a drop point or a trap. If you go, we can't go with you in uniform, but we can shadow discreetly plainclothes, unmarked vehicles. We'll set perimeters, snipers if needed. We will not let them get away with this," the inspector promised.
Giselle's hands shook as she reached for Michael. "Please, Dear," she whispered. "Do whatever it takes. Just bring our baby back."
Michael's jaw clenched until it ached. He knew the reality of men who made threats like that: they raised the stakes, forced a choice between trusting worse threats and trusting the law. He thought of Dyana Rosey's face on the screen, the way the kidnapper had yanked her hair as a proof of cruelty a thing that would haunt him whether he saved her or not.
"All right," he said finally, voice hoarse but steadier than he felt. "We play it their way for now. But we do it with you all of you. We do it under your supervision. And we trace every step."
"We'll move fast," the inspector said. "When they send location coordinates or the drop address, we'll scramble teams. We'll also try to isolate the call's traffic and get cyber specialists on it now. Don't contact anyone else. Keep the number on and keep this call line open. And sir no sudden moves. Let us do the tactical work."
Michael looked once more at the black screen, as if the image of his daughter might reappear and speak. Instead, the only sound in the room was the steady click of a radio on the inspector's belt and the distant rumble of a city that kept turning while their world had narrowed to a single, impossible demand.
Outside, the sky over Bennett Road had gone leaden. Inside, time telescoped into the long, slow wait before a plan could be set into motion a thin, fragile sliver between threat and rescue where any wrong move might be the last
After the kidnappers gave the address, the police immediately planned a rescue operation for Dyana Rosey. Without wasting any time, they headed straight for the given location.
Meanwhile, at the place where she was confined, Dyana Rosey was still trying her best to free herself. With great patience, she finally managed to undo the ropes binding her hands. However, when she heard footsteps entering the room, Dyana Rosey quickly pretended as though the ropes were still intact.
Ken, the burly kidnapper who often guarded Dyana Rosey, came in carrying a packet of food. He approached her and tried to feed her rice. But Dyana Rosey shook her head, refusing firmly.
"Eat it!" Ken barked, his face twisted in anger. When Dyana Rosey still refused to open her mouth, Ken lost his temper and threw the food right at her face.
The spilled gravy and grains of rice stuck to her cheeks, making her sob uncontrollably. Burning with rage, Ken shoved the chair roughly before storming out, slamming the door shut with a loud bang.
In her heart, Dyana Rosey prayed that this was truly the chance she needed to escape before Ken returned.
A few minutes later, Dyana Rosey heard the sound of a car engine fading away, as if Ken had left the place. Her heartbeat quickened. This was the moment she had been waiting for.
With trembling hands, she quickly untied the ropes around her ankles. Once freed, she tried to stand, but her body felt weak. Her legs were numb and stiff after sitting tied up on the wooden bench for so long.
She bit her lip against the pain, her hands gripping the wall for balance. Though difficult, her determination to escape was stronger than the suffering her body endured.
Dyana Rosey took slow, staggering steps, ignoring the numbness in her legs as her eyes scanned the decrepit room. The walls were covered with moss and peeling paint, while the stench of mildew filled the air. She searched for anything that might help her, until her eyes landed on a wooden door slightly ajar at the end of the room.
Cautiously, she approached the door. Her breath was uneven, ears alert to the slightest suspicious sound. Her small hand pushed the creaky door open, the hinges whining as if threatening to betray her.
Light spilled in from outside, making Dyana Rosey's heart pound faster. She stepped through, and her eyes were immediately blinded by a golden orange glow. It was almost dusk. The sky blazed in hues of red and orange, the sun sinking at the horizon.
But her hope of finding a way home turned into horror. The area around her was surrounded by dense forest. Tall trees loomed overhead, their branches blocking her view, as though nature itself was trapping her. The forest wind carried strange sounds of rustling leaves, nocturnal birds calling, and occasionally the crack of branches like something was watching her.
Dyana Rosey clutched her chest, heart thundering, but her resolve was clear: she had to escape before Ken returned.
She staggered into the forest, each step crunching dry leaves beneath her feet. Low branches scratched her arms, but she didn't care. Every step was a fight to get farther from that house. Her only thought was to run before Ken came back.
The old wooden door creaked open roughly. Ken entered with another man, broad-shouldered, with a cruel face marked by a long scar down his cheek. He was Daniel, a companion far more ruthless and cold-blooded.
Daniel glanced around the room, his eyes narrowing. "Ken, we have to be ready. Michael will come with the police. I don't want to give them a single chance to beat us." His hands deftly loaded a bullet into a black pistol, sliding the chamber shut with a chilling click.
Ken picked up a shotgun from the corner, inspected it briefly, then gripped it tightly. "Relax, Daniel. Everything will go acc—"
His words cut short. His eyes widened. The chair that was supposed to hold Dyana Rosey was empty, the ropes lying loose on the floor.
Daniel's face twisted with rage as he turned to Ken. "What the hell?!" He punched Ken hard in the face, sending him stumbling back, nearly falling. "Idiot! You let her escape!"
Ken gritted his teeth, wiping the blood trickling from his cheek. His face flushed with fury. "That damn girl… she's been a nuisance from the very start!"
He wiped the blood from his lip and lifted the shotgun in frustration. Daniel, already gripping his pistol tightly, looked grim and deadly.
"If she gets away, we're finished. The police could show up any minute. We need to get her back now!" Daniel hissed, his voice taut with pressure.
Without wasting another moment, they both rushed out of the house, heading into the forest. Their heavy footsteps thudded against the ground, swift and violent. The dim twilight in the forest only deepened the dread, as though the shadows sided with the hunters.
And among the towering trees, Dyana Rosey was now prey… trapped between life and death.
A black police car stopped not far from the old, desolate house standing in the middle of the twilight forest. The engine was cut, leaving only the sound of wind sweeping through the dry leaves.
Mr. Michael turned to Giselle, who sat pale-faced in the passenger seat, her eyes red from holding back tears. He squeezed his wife's hand tightly.
"Darling… listen to me. You must stay in the car. Don't get out, no matter what happens. I promise you, we'll bring Rosey home." His voice trembled, but his eyes burned with resolve.
Tears welled up again in Giselle's eyes. "Michael… please be careful. Bring our daughter back."
Mr. Michael nodded, pressing a quick kiss to Giselle's forehead before stepping out of the car. The door shut softly behind him, leaving Giselle with her head bowed, clutching the hem of her blouse with trembling hands, praying silently in her heart.
The special police unit accompanying them was already prepared, weapons in hand, bulletproof vests strapped tight. The commander signaled, and the officers spread out, hiding behind thick trees and bushes, surrounding the house.
Mr. Michael stood close to the police chief, his gaze sharp on the house that seemed to swallow the fading light. An ominous aura hung over the place, as if it awaited disaster.
"We need to be careful," the chief whispered. "They may be armed. Capture them alive if possible, but the hostage's safety comes first."
Mr. Michael nodded, taking a deep breath, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. In his mind, there was only one face Dyana Rosey's terrified one. He would not return without his daughter.