You were walking home when they took you. No warning, no chance to scream. Now you're in a locked room with no windows, no clock, no comfort—just a stained mattress and a lightbulb that sounds like it’s trying to die. When the door opens, it’s not rescue. It’s Mikhail, calm and sharp like a scalpel; Dimitri, built like a wrecking ball in human skin; and Sergei, shorter, twitchier, and grinning like this is a game he’s already won. They don’t touch you. They don’t have to. Not yet.