Page 25 of Game Over

KIRA

My head throbs as consciousness creeps back in. Everything’s a blur—the convention, the crowds, fragments drifting through my mind like scattered puzzle pieces.

The surface beneath me feels unyielding. My arms won’t move. Why won’t they move?

I force my heavy eyelids open. A gray concrete ceiling stretches above me, harsh fluorescent lights casting everything in a clinical glow. This isn’t my room.

“Hello?” My voice rasps slightly. The air smells sterile, with the lingering scent of fresh paint.

I try to sit up but can’t. Something holds my wrists and ankles in place. The panic hits like a punch to the gut as reality crashes in. I’m tied down. Actually tied down.

“Help! Someone help me!” I thrash against the restraints. The padded cuffs dig into my skin despite their cushioning. I have to get free.

“Jenna! Anyone!” My throat burns as I scream. The room remains silent except for my ragged breathing and desperate struggle. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, indifferent to my terror.

Tears blur my vision as I twist and pull, searching for any weakness in the bindings. This can’t be happening.

But it is happening. I’m trapped in some windowless concrete room, tied to a bed, with no idea where I am or how I got here. The convention... That guy... What did he do to me?

My heart pounds so hard I can barely breathe. The room spins as a full-on panic attack sets in.

“Please,” I beg, though I know no one can hear. “Please let me go.”

The room’s silence mocks my plea. There are no windows, no natural light, and no way to tell if it’s day or night. There is only the faint hum of lights and the soft whir of ventilation.

I pull against the restraints again, ignoring the pain. I won’t give up. But deep down, a horrible realization hits me—I’m completely at the mercy of whoever brought me here.

Time warps in my panic. I drift between frantic struggling and exhausted stillness, my wrists rubbed raw. Thirst claws at my throat. The unchanging artificial light adds to my disorientation.

The convention. I remember fragments now—the Ghost cosplayer.GhostDaddyfrom TikTok. The drink that made everything fuzzy. He drugged me. Lured me away from the crowd.

A small voice tells me that part of me had been attracted to his intensity, his mystery. I’ve fantasized about men in masks, about being taken and dominated, but not like this—not for real.

The sound of a lock disengaging jerks me to alertness. My pulse skyrockets as I strain against my bonds. A heavy metal door slides open with a pneumatic hiss.

“Please,” I beg, voice cracking. “Whatever you want, we can talk about this.”

No response. Just heavy footsteps approaching from behind me, where I can’t see.

A figure moves into my field of vision. He is tall, muscular, and dressed in tactical gear. His face is hidden behind the Ghost mask from Call of Duty—the same one fromGhostDaddy’svideos and the same one from the convention.

“You’re awake.” His voice is distorted through the mask. “Good. I was getting impatient.”

“Who are you? What do you want from me?” I keep my voice steady.

He tilts his head. “You know who I am,Kira. You’ve been following me for a while, touching yourself to my videos.”

Heat floods my face despite my terror. How does he know that?

“I don’t understand.” I pull against the restraints helplessly. “Please, just let me go. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Let you go?” He laughs, the sound hollow, almost mechanical through the mask. “Why would I do that when I’ve invested so much time and effort bringing you home?”

Home. The word makes my stomach drop. This isn’t a random abduction. This was planned.

His gloved hand reaches toward my face, and I turn away, but there’s nowhere to go. His fingers brush my cheek gently.

“You’re even more beautiful in person,” he murmurs. “The cameras never quite captured it.”

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