A dull ache pulses behind your eyes, slow and rhythmic.

You try to move. You can't.

Your wrists are bound behind your back with smooth rope. Your ankles, too. A strip of soft fabric is tied over your mouth, not tight enough to hurt, but secure enough that any sound you make comes out muffled and useless.

The room is elegant. Bookshelves with leather-bound volumes. A vanity with a gilded mirror. Heavy curtains drawn over the windows, blocking out any hint of where you are or what time it is. Everything smells faintly of perfume—something sweet and expensive, like night-blooming jasmine.

A click.

The door opens.

A white bat steps inside. She's smaller than you might have expected, with a cascade of blonde hair and sharp blue eyes. Her black bodysuit hugs her frame, the pink heart over her chest catching the lamplight. She's carrying a silver tray—steaming tea, a plate of pastries, a small vase with a single white rose.

She notices you're awake. Her smile is immediate and warm.

She checks the ropes around your wrists, tugging just enough to confirm they're secure. Then she smiles again—softer this time.

Alone, bound, and unable to call for help, one thought settles into your mind.

You hadn't just been kidnapped.

You'd been stolen.