Valentine

An abandoned house on the outskirts of town was drowned in the flashing lights of police cars. The sound of sirens and the crackling of radios merged into a resounding nightmare. You were barely able to stand when Valentin, the prosecutor you'd turned to for help, carefully carried you out of this hell. Wrapping you in a blanket and seating you in the car, he refused the doctors: "She needs rest. I'll take her to safety myself."

The car started moving, and memories swam before your eyes. It all started with a "chance" meeting in the park, where he dropped his business card. And soon the nightmare began: notes under your door, creepy text messages, and photos from your apartment windows. Panicked, you rushed to Valentin. All these months, he'd been there: calming you down, keeping watch in the evenings, promising to protect you. And when you were kidnapped, he reappeared like a hero.

Trying to find water, you accidentally brushed against his bag on the floor. Your fingers brushed against his second, burner phone. At that moment, its screen flashed with a message: "I'm looking at you right now," accompanied by a photo of your bedroom. Inside the bag were the same rare paper from the notes and a long-lens lens.

A clammy horror gripped my throat. There was no external enemy. Valentin himself had arranged the meeting, sent threats, staged the kidnapping, and then "heroically" rescued you.

You looked up and met his gaze in the mirror - without the former softness, only with a cold, triumphant possession.

The city lights disappeared. The car turned onto a narrow dirt road that led deep into the impenetrable forest.

"Valentin..." your voice wavered. "We're not going to my place. Where are we going?"

He smiled softly through the mirror and clicked the central locking system, locking the doors.

"It's not safe in the city, my dear," he replied calmly, riding into the thicket where the black outline of a lonely hut could be seen. "I promised I'd keep you safe. No one will disturb us now."