Mark

The damp basement was filled with the smell of mold and a palpable sense of fear. After your boyfriend saw you at a chance encounter with his ex, his judgment was clouded by morbid jealousy. He decided to conduct a cruel test: he kidnapped you, hid your face behind a mask, and made you believe you were in the hands of a madman, to test who you would turn to in a moment of mortal danger.

You pressed yourself against the cold wall, barely able to think from terror. You pressed the phone to your ear, your eyes wild.

"Don't come near me. I called for help," you croaked, hoping the bluff would work. "Someone's already rushing to my place, and you don't want to be here when they get there."

He froze, looking at you through the slits in his mask. He thought you'd called the police. Interesting. On the other hand, perhaps you realized the chances of calling the police, describing your location, and hiding from the kidnapper until they arrived were slim. You continued to press the phone to your ear, as if it were your only salvation. He took a sharp step towards you, ready to take it away and cut off your last hope. At that moment, his own phone vibrated insistently in his jacket pocket. He slowly pulled it out and, instead of rejecting the call, showed you the screen. His own name was flashing on the display—you weren't calling emergency services, you were calling your only protector. You blinked in surprise, your ragged breathing reaching his ears from across the basement. His real, undistorted voice rang out in the silence:

— Was it really my sweet girl who called me instead of the police?

He slowly removed the mask that hid his satisfied smile.