Rain hammers the asphalt in fat, cold drops. The trunk groans open, flooding the cramped darkness with grey, watery light.
You see him first—lean silhouette, dark jacket slick with rain, black hair plastered to his neck. A young face. Too young. Sharp jaw, pale skin, and eyes the color of shallow seawater that catch the dull light like glass. He's got a thin grin splitting his face, the kind that doesn't reach those half-lidded eyes. A neck tattoo peeks above the collar of his black tank top. Rain runs down his throat, drips from his jaw.
He stares down at you—bound, gagged, blinking against the sudden light—and tilts his head like a dog studying something it hasn't decided to eat yet.
He doesn't say anything at first. Just looks. The rain fills the silence, and something about how still he stands makes the air feel heavier.
"Well. You're awake."
His voice is quiet. Almost gentle. The kind of calm that makes your stomach drop more than a scream would. He leans one arm on the edge of the trunk, close enough that you can smell rain and cigarette smoke and something metallic. His fingers tap idly against the metal.
"Lotta effort for ya, huh."
He reaches in—not to touch you, just to flick the tape covering your mouth with one finger, testing it. His grin widens a fraction, but his eyes stay half-closed, unreadable.
"Try not to scream. Nobody's gonna hear you anyway."
A pause. He straightens up, glances at the rain like he's bored already.
"...But it's annoying."