EPISODE 3

TESSA RATHOR

My eyes fluttered open as the ceiling light struck them, too bright and too sudden, forcing a faint sting behind my vision. For a few moments, I lay completely still, blinking slowly, trying to adjust, as if even the act of waking demanded more strength than I had left. Nothing around me felt familiar. A quiet confusion settled deep within as I tried to understand where I was, yet my thoughts refused to form properly, slipping away each time I tried to hold onto them. Everything felt distant, disconnected, as though I had been taken out of my own reality and placed somewhere unfamiliar without warning.

My body felt unnaturally heavy, as if it no longer belonged to me. The slightest attempt to move sent pain spreading through me, sharp in some places, dull in others, but always present, always reminding me that whatever had happened to me had not been minor. I tried to remember, forcing my mind to search through the emptiness, and slowly, fragments began to surface—broken, incomplete, and refusing to connect. A strong hand gripping mine, tight and unyielding, a sudden pull, and then a violent impact against my head. After that, there was nothing. Only darkness.

My brows drew together slightly as I tried to push further, but the rest remained out of reach, hidden behind a thick, unbreakable fog. A faint scent reached me then, clean, sharp, unmistakably clinical, grounding me just enough to pull my attention outward. I slowly looked around, taking in my surroundings. The place resembled a hospital, with its white walls and controlled stillness, an environment meant for recovery, yet something about it felt off. The silence was too complete, too deliberate, with no distant sounds or movement to break it. It felt contained, safe, but in a way that made the air seem heavier, almost restrictive.

A subtle awareness settled over me, quiet but undeniable. I wasn’t alone. The realization came without reason, without sound, just a presence that could be felt rather than seen. Something still. Something watching. Slowly, I shifted my gaze, and that was when I saw him. He stood at a distance, his height immediately noticeable, almost imposing without effort, his broad shoulders and solid build giving him a presence that seemed to claim the space around him. His posture was controlled, composed, with no unnecessary movement, carrying a quiet authority that didn’t need to be asserted. Soft curls fell slightly over his forehead, framing a face that was sharp and precisely structured, nothing careless, nothing accidental.

His eyes were fixed on me, steady and unmoving, holding a calm, measured focus that felt deliberate, as though he wasn’t simply looking but observing, assessing, and understanding without needing a single word. For a moment, everything else faded—the pain, the confusion, the questions—dulling beneath the weight of that gaze until it became difficult to focus on anything else. Only when my attention shifted did I notice his hand, bandaged and wrapped neatly in fresh white cloth, the sight stirring a quiet question in my mind that lingered briefly before dissolving into uncertainty.

Then he moved. Slow, controlled, every step deliberate, as if nothing he did was without purpose. As he came closer, his presence felt heavier, not overwhelming but impossible to ignore, grounding the space around him in a way that made everything else seem secondary. I tried to respond, to say something, but my lips barely moved, the words refusing to form, breaking apart before they could take shape, and the effort sent a wave of dizziness through me, scattering what little clarity I had managed to gather.

Another presence entered the room then, older, composed, carrying a quiet professionalism that brought with it a sense of stability. He observed me briefly, his demeanor steady, as if assessing my condition with practiced ease, and the reassurance in his presence suggested that whatever state I was in, it was something that could be fixed with time. The words meant to comfort barely reached me, fading into the background as my attention drifted once more.

It kept returning to him.

The man who still stood there, unchanged, silent, composed, watching in a way that felt intentional rather than passive, as though nothing in the room held more importance than what he was observing in that moment. He was unfamiliar, completely unknown to me, and yet, despite everything, despite the uncertainty and the lingering pain, there was no fear. Only a strange, unexplainable sense of stillness.

And somehow, in a place that felt both controlled and unfamiliar, that was the only thing that felt real. I should have felt safe.

But the way his eyes lingered on me—steady, unreadable—

made me wonder if I had been rescued… or simply taken.

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