The darkness wrapped around her like a shroud, thick and heavy, pressing against her skin as if trying to smother her. The streets were nearly silent at this hour—just the soft hum of a distant streetlamp and the sharp click of her heels on the damp pavement. A light fog curled around her ankles as she walked, her hospital ID still clipped to her scrubs, swaying gently with each hurried step. Her twelve-hour shift was finally over, but her mind remained restless, filled with the low hum of machines, the sterile smell of antiseptic, and the dying man's last breath she couldn't shake from memory.
She had walked this route dozens of times. But tonight was different.
The air was too still. The silence too complete.
She glanced behind her—empty sidewalk. No footsteps but her own. Still, the hairs on her arms stood on end. Someone was watching her. She was sure of it. Every instinct in her body screamed it. She tightened her grip on the strap of her bag and quickened her pace.
Then came the sound—a sudden screech, violent and jarring. Headlights flared as a black van swung into view and stopped sharply beside her, tires shrieking against the road.
Her heart stopped.
Before she could scream, hands shot out—gloved, powerful—and yanked her off her feet. Her cry was cut short as her breath was stolen by panic. She kicked and twisted, trying to wrench free, but her captors were relentless. The van door slid shut behind her, sealing her in darkness.
"Let me go!" she screamed, thrashing violently.
They pinned her down, swift and efficient. One of them zip-tied her wrists, ignoring her struggling. The smell of leather, sweat, and something metallic filled the air. One of them pressed a hand over her mouth, muffling her sobs.
"Quiet," a voice snapped from the shadows—not cruel, not kind. Just cold.
The van lurched forward, swallowing the road in silence. Inside, dim lights flickered on. As she blinked, adjusting her eyes, she saw him.
Sitting opposite her, legs spread in casual command, was a man—unmasked.
He didn't speak. He didn't move. He just watched her.
He was impossibly still, like a statue carved from marble. His face was sharp, symmetrical, disturbingly calm. His eyes were the color of ash—gray, deep, and stormy, revealing nothing, demanding everything.
She knew that face. Not personally. But by reputation.
They called him The Beast.
His name was whispered in hospital break rooms and police briefings—tales of a man who moved through the underworld like a ghost, leaving bodies, fear, and silence in his wake. Some thought he was just a myth. But there was nothing mythical about the way he looked at her now.
No one moved. Not her. Not the men. Not him.
Time became a slow, agonizing crawl.
Finally, the van slowed and turned, bumping over gravel. A set of iron gates opened, revealing a sweeping estate beyond. The mansion loomed like something out of a dream—or a nightmare. Wide marble steps led to towering double doors. Lamps burned gold in ornate sconces. Vines crawled up polished stone columns, and the faint scent of lavender mixed with something darker.
The van stopped. Her door opened.
He was there again. No words. No threats.
He pulled her from the van himself.
"Let go of me!" she shrieked, beating her fists against his chest, but he lifted her with ease and slung her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing.
The world tilted and spun as she kicked and flailed, her screams echoing through the night.
He carried her through the grand entrance, past gleaming marble floors and down hallways lined with gold-framed art and flickering candlelight. She caught glimpses of luxury—velvet drapes, crystal chandeliers, carved furniture—but it all blurred together as panic set in.
Where was he taking her? Why?
He opened a set of heavy doors with one hand and stepped inside a massive bedroom—soft lighting, silver-gilded mirrors, and a bed large enough to drown in.
He tossed her onto it.
The mattress cushioned her fall, but she scrambled backward, heart slamming in her chest as he stepped closer.
"Don't touch me!" she hissed.
He stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
"You'll stay here," he said, his voice low and controlled. "You're safe. For now."
Her pulse roared in her ears. "Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?"
He tilted his head slightly, as if her question amused him. "You were chosen."
Her stomach turned. "By who? For what?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he turned toward the door.
"Get some rest," he said, pausing in the doorway. "You'll need it."
Then he was gone, and the heavy door clicked shut behind him.
She stared after him, trembling, adrenaline still coursing through her limbs.
The room was silent.
She was alone.
Or was she?
Her eyes scanned the corners, the ceiling, the vents. Cameras? Hidden microphones? She didn't know.
She crawled to the edge of the bed and looked down. The floor was thick with carpet, soft and soundless. The windows were covered in thick, velvet curtains that blocked out everything.
Her wrists burned from the plastic ties. She twisted them slowly until the pain grew sharp, but she didn't stop—she would get out. Somehow.
She didn't know who "The Beast" really was. Or why she was here. But she knew one thing with absolute clarity:
She would survive him.
Or destroy him trying.