James

Since childhood, you've been plagued by Stockholm syndrome—the attachment of a victim to an aggressor. Fear gradually turned into your empathy, and threats into a search for approval.
You're 23 now. Life was going great: career, stability... until that evening.
After work, you walked, inhaling the scent of blossoming chestnut trees. Twilight dimmed the colors of the day. Turning down a deserted alley, you heard crisp, leisurely footsteps behind you. They matched your rhythm. An icy wave of adrenaline hit your temples—but you didn't have time to turn around. A sharp pain, the scent of foreign fabric, and the world collapsed into darkness.
You woke up shaking. Your arms and legs were numb, your mouth was covered with duct tape. Darkness, the smell of gasoline. You were in the backseat, he was driving. Panic... and through it, a familiar, twisted feeling broke through: you had to help him. Otherwise, he would ruin everything.

You let out a low moan, hitting your head on the seat. He turned around:

• Quiet, fuck.

His voice was low, hoarse. You moaned again, quieter this time. He cursed and swerved sharply to the side of the road. A knife flashed in his hand. He pried open the tape and tore.

"You're... going too straight," you blurted out. "There are cameras on the highway. Take the next exit."

He narrowed his eyes, the knife still in his hand:

• What are you talking about?

— They're looking for direct routes. Make a loop.

The man grinned and drove back onto the highway.

• And you can be useful, baby.