In the forgotten attic of an abandoned farmhouse, the rafters creaked softly with the weight of time—and of a man suspended from them. Trevor hung upside down, his wrists bound with frayed rope, his body marred by bruises that bloomed like ink across parchment. Blood trickled down his forehead, tracing a path along his temple before vanishing into his matted hair.
Suspended upside down from the rafters, Trevor's bare skin was streaked with dried blood and the grime of the attic's forgotten years. Every bruise stood out stark against the cold pallor of his body, exposed and vulnerable beneath the cracked wooden beams. The ropes bit into his ankles, creaking with every slight sway as if echoing some ancient rhythm.
Trevor wheezed in pain,his throat parched as he had been tied there for hours. Blood was rushing to his head and he was extremely dizzy. It had been raining and he was walking home thinking of where to work to earn money. He had been living by himself and rarely had enough to eat and he was still in school. He had been doing odd jobs for a while but now he had been laid off.
Trevor's pulse thundered in his ears, louder than the groans of the wooden beams above him. His arms, slick with sweat and streaked with dirt, strained toward the floor as he twisted his core with every ounce of remaining strength. The ropes at his ankles cut deeper, but he welcomed the pain—it meant he could still feel something.
He had gone down a alley and was thinking on what to do when he noticed the alley was quiet—too quiet . He suddenly heard footsteps. He turned, too late.
A hooded figure, no face, just the glint of iron and a surge of movement. The struggle had been brief and desperate, but his attacker knew what they were doing. A cloth over his mouth. The sharp sting of something laced into the air. Then everything tipped sideways.
Darkness.
And then: this attic.
Trevor cursed at the ropes. He wasn't rich or important. Heck, he didn't even owe a phone, and now he was kidnapped for what! Maybe they wanted to use him for organ selling but he knew that people wouldn't even want his organs. Maybe his organs would even fail the person! He had to get out and somehow escape.
His fingers brushed the splintered edge of the broken shelf beneath him. Not enough. He adjusted his swing, rocking side to side like a pendulum, channeling every twitch of movement into momentum. The attic mocked him with its silence, as if the very shadows paused to watch.
With a growl—half agony, half defiance—Trevor lunged downward again. His fingertips grazed the shard. Once. Twice. The third time, he caught it.
The jagged glass bit into his palm as he curled his fingers around it, but he didn't let go. Blood dripped freely now—fresh, hot, alive. With the shard clutched tightly, he twisted upward toward the rope, muscles quaking.
The shard of glass bit deeper into Trevor's palm with every saw-like stroke against the rope, but he didn't stop. Each breath was a battle, his ribs aching, the attic swaying upside down around him in a haze of sweat and flickering pain.
Then—
A voice. Smooth. Unhurried. Amused.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
Trevor froze.
The sound came from the stairwell behind him, just beyond his line of sight. Footsteps followed—a deliberate clack of boots on dusty wood—and then a figure emerged into the moonlight slicing through the rafters. She was dressed in deep navy, her silhouette elegant and out of place among the ruin. A long braid curled down one shoulder, and her eyes sparkled like someone who enjoyed knowing more than anyone else in the room.
Behind her came three men. Silent. Built like statues and just as warm. One carried a crowbar. Another, a thick canvas sack. The third simply cracked his knuckles and looked up at Trevor with all the empathy of a butcher sizing a side of beef.
Trevor's eyes widened as he looked at the girl. He blinked hard, the blood in his eyes making shadows blur—but nothing could obscure that voice. That lilt. That smirk in every syllable.
No. It couldn't be.
As the woman stepped fully into the shaft of moonlight, the past struck him like a blow to the chest. The sharp jawline. The freckle below her left eye. The way she held herself like every room belonged to her by default.
> "Lena…" he rasped, barely recognizing his own voice.
Her smile deepened—not warm, not cruel. Just knowing.
"So you do remember," she said, brushing a cobweb from her coat. "I was afraid you might've let me slip away like everything else."
"Why are you doing this, Lena?" Trevor spat out struggling. "We were done. I had nothing to do with you. "
Lena sighed like what she was doing was obvious.
"That is why! You dumped me just because I cheated on you once!" She snapped. "No one ever dumps me. I dump them."
"Can you even hear yourself!" Trevor screamed, shocked by her answer. "You broke my trust and I ended our relationship. How was it my fault?"
Lena's boots thudded softly against the aged floorboards as she approached, each step deliberate, echoing in the still attic like a countdown. Trevor's breath quickened, but he kept his gaze steady—even inverted, even bleeding. His heart thudded not with fear, but with betrayal sharpened into something colder.
She stopped just inches from him. For a moment, they simply stared at each other—two ghosts from another life suspended in a twisted present.
Then, without warning, her palm arced through the air and cracked against his cheek.
The sound was sharp. Final.
Trevor's head snapped to the side, his skin stinging, his ears ringing. Blood welled where her ring had opened a fresh cut beneath his cheekbone. For a heartbeat, there was only silence.
Lena didn't flinch.
"That," she said calmly, brushing hair from her face, "is for pretending I didn't matter. For walking away like it was over when you said it was."
Trevor coughed out a bitter laugh, more pain than humor.
"You strung me up in an attic for closure?"
Her expression flickered—something behind her eyes. Not regret. Not satisfaction. Something in between.
"No," she said softly. "I brought you here because I haven't finished what I wanted to do with you."
Trevor coughed and looked at her upside down with a weary look in his eyes. "What the hell do you want to do with me?"
Lena's crimson lips curled into a slow, wicked smile—a look Trevor remembered all too well, though never quite like this. There was satisfaction in her eyes now, but it wasn't romantic or nostalgic. It was clinical. Cold. Calculated.
"Untie him," she said smoothly, her tone casual, as though discussing redecorating rather than moving a bound man.
The three men hesitated just enough to suggest they weren't used to questioning her, then moved. One climbed the beam with the practiced ease of someone who had done this before, slicing the rope while the other two knelt below, arms outstretched to catch.
Trevor hit the ground hard despite them trying to ease him down. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, and the moment he felt cool wood against his bleeding back, he started to writhe.
"Get off me!" he barked, twisting, fighting their grip like a trapped animal.
But they were stronger—calm, methodical. They rolled him with force and precision, pinning him down as they flipped him face up. The attic's warped ceiling swam above him, framed by Lena's silhouette.
Lena stood over Trevor, her shadow stretching long across the attic floor. Her eyes—once the color of comfort—now burned with something sharper. Anger, yes. But something deeper too. A wound she hadn't let scab over.
She crouched beside him, brushing a speck of blood from his cheek with the back of her gloved hand. Then she smiled—not kind, not cruel. Just honest.
"You know," she said slowly, "I've never been dumped before. Not once."
Her voice hardened with each word.
"I was always the one who walked away. The one who said it was over. The one who left with her head high and her heels higher."
She stood again, pacing now.
"But you… you blindsided me, Trevor. No big fight. No dramatic final scene. Just silence. Disappearing like I didn't deserve a goodbye."
She spun to face him, her smile twisting.
"You turned me into a joke. 'The woman who got ghosted by the bookworm.' That's what they called me. A laughing stock. Do you have any idea what that does to someone like me?"
Trevor opened his mouth to speak, but she raised a finger.
"No. You don't. Because you never stayed long enough to find out what I was capable of."
She stepped closer, her boots inches from his ribs, voice dropping to a near whisper.
"But you're going to."
The three men exchanged glances behind her, as if even they hadn't heard this side of her before.
Trevor lay there, still panting from the struggle, the coarse attic floor pressing into the raw skin of his back. The flickering light caught in Lena's eyes, and for a moment she looked like the girl he'd loved—before the venom, before the shadows. But that moment passed like breath on a windowpane.
His jaw clenched. He swallowed hard. And with a rasp barely louder than a whisper, he asked:
"What are you going to do to me, Lena?"
Lena smiled with a maddening glint in her eye before she told her guys to hold him tight.
Trevor swallowed as they were holding him roughly. "You want this guys to rape me, right?" He spat out. "I should have known a bitch like you was fascinated with that."
Lena didn't answer him. She rummaged in her back and what she brought out made him gasp. It was a strap-on dildo and she attached it to her waist.
Trevor's chest heaved as he glared up at Lena, his face flushed with fury and disbelief. His voice, raw and ragged, tore through the attic's stale silence.
"Why are you doing this to me, Lena?!" he shouted, eyes blazing. "I didn't sleep with you! I didn't touch you so why the hell are you doing this?
Lena's expression didn't change at first. But something in her eyes flickered. A shift. Not guilt—just deeper calculation. Like she was reshaping the narrative in real time.
"I always wondered why is it that women are the ones being raped," she murmured. "I now wondered why don't i experience it for myself and this time with you. You could say that I always had a fetish for banging men."
Trevor thrashed against the wooden floor, muscles burning, blood pounding like war drums in his ears. The shard of glass pressed against his palm, slick with sweat and his own blood. Rage surged through him, overwhelming the pain.
"Are you crazy, you stupid bitch!You're insane, Lena!" he roared, voice cracking with raw emotion. "This—this is madness!"
He jerked his arms, trying to twist out from under the heavy hands pinning him down, the veins in his neck straining. The men holding him grunted—he wasn't making it easy.
"All of this, just because I left? Because I wouldn't be your puppet? You're out of your damn mind! You stupid bitch!"
Lena didn't flinch. She just watched, her expression unreadable—somewhere between pleasure and pity, like a cat watching a trapped bird beat its wings bloody.
"Let it out, Trevor," she said softly, almost affectionately. "Scream. Struggle. Remind me why I ever cared."
The attic had gone still.
The men stepped back at her gesture, silent shadows in the corners of the room. Trevor's chest rose and fell in jagged rhythm, blood trickling down his temple, his eyes locked on the woman approaching like a slow-moving storm.
Lena stepped closer, heels tapping softly on the floorboards, her expression unreadable—somewhere between threat and seduction, blade and balm. She knelt beside him, voice low and laced with strange warmth.
"You don't have to be afraid, Trevor…"
She leaned in, so close he could feel her breath.
"I promise… you're going to enjoy this."
Before he could move, before he could speak—she plunged in and there became only pain, screams,agony and silence.