Page 110 of Taken Off Camera
Cold metal digs into my temple, freezing me mid-movement.
“The more you fight, the more your friend suffers,” Travis warns, eerily calm compared to his frenzied expression. “Understand?”
As the pressure increases, the metal digs into my skin. A gun. My racing heart stutters, and I go limp beneath his touch.
“Smart boy.” He eases back, keeping the gun pressed to my head. “On your feet.”
I struggle upright, hampered by my bound limbs and trembling muscles. Travis grows impatient, grabbing my elbow to haul me the rest of the way, the gun never leaving my temple.
“Walk,” he orders, shuffling me forward.
The warehouse stretches around us, cavernous and dimly lit. As my eyes adjust, I pick out the shapes of stacked pallets and abandoned machinery. The air smells of dust and motor oil, with an underlying stingof bleach that itches at the back of my throat. Our footsteps echo on the concrete, his steady, mine stumbling with the limited slack he gave me between my feet.
“Where’s Saint?” I ask, my voice small in the vast space.
“Alive.” Travis drags me forward. “For now.”
We pass through what must have been the main storage area, heading toward a section closed off with makeshift walls. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, their sickly glow tinting my skin a ghostly green-white.
“Almost there.” Anticipation brightens his plain features. “I think you’ll appreciate the effort I’ve put into this.”
My stomach churns at the pride evident beneath the words. Whatever waits beyond those partitions has cost him time and resources, and the thought offers no comfort. Travis reaches past me to push open a door set into the partition wall, and with a flick of a switch, light floods the space beyond.
I stop breathing.
The room before me isn’t a cell or torture chamber.
It’s my apartment.
Not my actual apartment, but a meticulousrecreation of my streaming space set on a wooden stage. The desk sits in the exact position as mine at home, angled to catch the light. The same model of chair. My preferred ring light stands ready, its circular reflection catching in the camera lens positioned in the same place mine would be.
“What do you think?” Travis nudges me forward, excitement spilling into his words. “I matched everything. The wall color was tricky. I had to mix three different paints to get that exact shade of gray.”
My legs threaten to buckle as I take in the details. The posters on the wall. The small plant I always keep in frame. Even the ridiculous rainbow mug Saint gave me years ago, placed at the corner of the desk where I position it during streams.
“How—” I choke on the question, unable to complete it.
“I’m your biggest fan.” Travis beams with pride, the gun dropping from my temple as he gestures around the space. “I studied every stream. Mapped everything out. Took measurements from the camera angles.”
The floor tilts beneath me. This level of obsession goes beyond stalking. Beyond even the cameras he planted in my apartment. This is a stage set for whatever nightmare he has planned for me.
I spot a folded pile of fabric on the desk, and my stomach drops as I recognize the black lace trim and deep blue satin that reflects the overhead light. The same lingerie I wore in my third stream, where Travis first became fixated with me.
“Change,” Travis orders, circling around to face me. The gun returns, shoving under my chin this time, forcing my head up to meet his eyes. “We’re going live soon.”
“Live?” The word scrapes out of my throat.
Travis tips his chin toward the camera setup. “You have fans waiting. Important ones.”
Bile rises in my throat as understanding dawns. This isn’t just about his obsession. It’s an audition for the traffickers.
“Please don’t do this,” I whisper, shame and fear twisting together in me. “Whatever they’re offering you?—”
“Turn around,” he interrupts with impatience. “I’m cutting your hands free. Try anything, and your friend loses something he needs.”
I turn, and cold metal grazes my bound wrists. The zip tie gives way with a snap, and blood rushes back into my hands with pins-and-needles intensity. The pain almost distracts from the horror of my situation.
Almost.
