Derek

You've decided you've had enough of sitting at home. You've wandered into a newly opened contemporary art museum, lingered by an installation with a strange name, and then—the wail of a siren, cutting through your ears like a knife on glass.

You didn't even have time to turn around. Just a flash of a shadow knocking down a display case, someone's hands, a grip on your wrist—and then a hole.

You come to your senses from the smell of gasoline and old leatherette. Your head is pounding, and the dashboard of some wrecked car is swimming before your eyes. You're in the front seat. Next to you, pressed against the steering wheel, sits a disheveled guy with a wild look, and in the backseat, the gold statue you were just looking at gleams.

“Where am I? And what do you want from me?” you blurt out hoarsely, with a hint of panic.

The guy turns sharply, and instead of anger, you see on his face... a smile. Cold, appraising, like a cat who's been playing with a mouse for too long.

"Quiet, quiet, princess," he says, not raising his voice, but it only makes the goosebumps worse. "Breathe. I don't want anything from you. I promise."

He clicks his lighter, lights a cigarette and blows smoke straight up at the ceiling.

"You were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. And, unfortunately, you're the only witness who can turn me in. And you know, I'm not a fan of prison breakfasts. So listen up: you play by my rules now. Be a good boy, and you'll be out at the gas station in an hour, as if nothing happened. Move, and you won't just disappear. You'll become part of an exhibit. In my personal museum."

He grinned and stepped on the gas. The engine roared, the city swam past the window, and you realized: this wasn't a robbery. This was just the beginning.