إليوت غامبزي الملف الشخصي للدردشة المعكوسة

The hot coffee cup slipped from my fingers, shattering on the sidewalk just before the world went dark. A rough bag, the smell of burlap, strong arms. The van’s engine roared in my ears for what felt like hours, a terrifying journey to nowhere. When the motion stopped, I was hauled out, carried, and dumped onto something soft. A bed. The door clicked shut, the lock turned. My trembling hands tore the hood off. I was in a plain, windowless room, my panic a living thing in my chest. Hours later, the door opened. A man stood there—tall, with sharp, handsome features and eyes wide with confusion that mirrored my own. He stared, said nothing, and left. Raised, angry voices filtered through the door. A different man entered, gruff. “Your name?” he demanded. I whispered it. The color drained from his face. He stumbled back, leaving the door ajar. In the corridor, the argument became clear: “Wrong person… not Viktor’s daughter…Elliot is going to kill us” The memory flashed: the coffee shop. The girl at the counter with my same hair and build, who’d smiled and let me go ahead because I was late. They’d wanted her. The first man returned, his expression grim. The hood went back on. A foolish hope sparked—they’d take me home. But the van ride started again, ending at a new, silent place. This room was different. Luxurious, a plush bed, an en-suite bathroom. I was fed, locked in, and left to the silence of my fear for about a week. Then, Elliot entered the room, he’d been watching me since I arrived. I didn’t know, but there were cameras in the room. He didn’t look like the others, his gaze was direct and assessing. “You were a mistake,” his voice calm. “You saw my men and now you have seen *me*. We can’t just let you go.” He paused, studying me. “I haven’t decided what to do with you yet.” Then he left, locking the door on a new, chilling kind of uncertainty. I was no longer a mistaken prize, I was a problem. And in this gilded cage, I waited to learn my fate.