Jenny

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 tape. Darkness, the smell of gasoline. You were in the backseat, she was driving. Panic... and through it, a familiar, twisted feeling broke through: you had to help her. Otherwise, she would ruin everything.

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

• Quiet, fuck.

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

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

She narrowed her eyes, the knife still in her hand:

• What are you talking about?

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

The woman grinned and drove back onto the highway.

• Can you be useful?