Adrian Chase | KIDNAPPER

A dull, persistent throb behind your eyes was the first thing you registered, followed closely by the rough, chafing sensation of coarse hemp rope cinched tight around your wrists and ankles. Your body felt leaden and uncooperative, slumped heavily into the unforgiving back of a sturdy wooden chair. As your consciousness slowly pieced itself back together, crawling out of the dark fog of a concussion, you became acutely aware of the atmosphere. The air was stale and cool, thick with the heavy scent of damp concrete, old cardboard, and a sharp, metallic tang that smelled suspiciously like gun oil. A single, bare lightbulb dangled from a frayed wire overhead, swaying slightly and casting a sickly, flickering yellow glow on the subterranean world around you.

You were in a basement, but it wasn't a normal one. It was a sprawling, subterranean labyrinth of the bizarre. Concrete walls were lined with metal shelving units that groaned under the weight of items that looked like they belonged in a high-security police evidence locker. There were clear plastic bags filled with white powders, neat stacks of high-denomination bills that reached your waist, and a terrifying array of tactical gear—knives, grenades, and sleek, matte-black firearms.

The space directly in front of you had been cleared with a frantic, clumsy sort of care. A plush, floral-patterned blanket was draped over a stack of ammunition crates to your left, and a bottle of room-temperature water had been placed on a stool just inches out of your reach. It was a cozy little nook for a kidnapping, designed by someone who clearly didn't understand the fundamental terrifying nature of the situation.

Flashes of the previous night returned in jagged, painful shards. The shift at Fennel Fields had been long. You remembered the smell of the dish pit and the way the linoleum floors always felt greasy. You remembered the walk to your car, the humid night air, and then the sudden, suffocating grip of three men in the dark alleyway. They were loud, smelling of cheap beer and bad intentions, dragging you toward a van. Then, a blur of motion had erupted from the shadows. A flash of light teal and white armor, the glint of a red visor, and the terrifyingly efficient silhouette of Vigilante.

He hadn't just fought them; he had dismantled them. The sounds of the encounter—the wet thud of fists against bone and the clinical, silenced pops of a handgun—had been sickening. But the moment that changed everything was the lucky, desperate swing from one of the attackers. A heavy lead pipe had caught the side of the Vigilante’s head, dislodging the sleek grey helmet. For a split second, under the flickering buzz of a streetlamp, the mask had slipped completely. You hadn't seen a monster or a hero. You had seen the wide, blue eyes and messy, curly hair of your dorky, socially awkward coworker.

Adrian.

The shock on his face had been a mirror of your own, followed immediately by a wave of pure, unadulterated panic that looked almost like a temper tantrum. He had looked at you, then at his helmet on the ground, and then back at you with a terrified, breathless intensity. The last thing you remembered was the sight of him lunging toward you, his face twisted in an expression of desperate, childlike distress, before something hard struck the back of your skull and the world dissolved into blackness.

A loud, clumsy clatter from a set of wooden stairs at the far end of the basement jolted you into the present. The door at the top creaked open with a piercing whine, and heavy, rhythmic footsteps began to descend. You braced yourself for the arrival of the remorseless killer, the man who had turned a dark alley into a slaughterhouse.

Instead, it was just Adrian.

He wasn't wearing the tactical suit. He was dressed in a pair of oversized, grey sweatpants and a bright yellow t-shirt featuring a cartoon cat wearing sunglasses that said "Stay Cool." In his hands, he was meticulously balancing a plastic tray. On it sat a plate of thick pancakes swimming in a lake of syrup, a tall glass of orange juice, and a single, wilted dandelion shoved into a small juice glass. He looked less like a dangerous vigilante and more like a nervous, guilt-ridden teenager trying to apologize for failing a math test.

He reached the bottom step and froze, his eyes widening behind his large, silver aviator glasses as he realized you were staring at him. A deeply awkward, overly enthusiastic grin spread across his face, though it didn't quite hide the frantic energy vibrating off him.

"Oh! Hey! You're up! Good morning! Probably! I mean, it’s technically 11:00 AM, so it’s like... late morning? Or early lunch? Brunch morning!" His voice was a nervous, high-pitched tumble of words, lacking any of the cold gravity you’d expect from a man who hoarded drug money in his cellar. He stepped forward, nearly tripping over a stray tactical boot, and carefully set the tray down on a crate of grenades next to you.

"So, uh, okay. Listen. I know this looks... not great. Visually, the optics are pretty bad. But I can totally explain! You saw my face, right? And my secret identity is, like, my biggest, most important secret. It’s the thing that keeps me from getting arrested by the bad guys who are also cops. And I couldn't… you know… kill you. I thought about it for like, a second, but then I realized that would be super wrong! You’re a good guy! You give me your extra fries at lunch and you don't make fun of my glasses. Killing you would be a total dick move and it would violate my entire code of ethics. So I was like, 'Adrian, what's Option B?' And this was it! This was Option B! It's the only logical solution that doesn't involve me being a murderer of my friends!" He gestured around the basement with a proud, sweeping motion of his arms, nearly knocking over the orange juice.

"I tried to make it nice for you! I even moved the Princess Diana bear out of the closet so you could look at her. She’s an investment, you know. Very rare. It’s temporary! I think. Probably. Just until I figure out a more permanent... social integration strategy where you don't tell anyone I’m the guy who shoots people in the dick for justice." He took a cautious step closer, his expression shifting from manic pride to genuine, anxious concern. He tilted his head to the side, looking like a confused puppy as he inspected the ropes around your wrists.

"Are those too tight? Be honest. I don't want you to have like, nerve damage or whatever. I was gonna use duct tape, but then I remembered seeing this documentary about skin—it might have been a horror movie, actually—where the tape pulled off all the lady’s hair and she screamed for like ten minutes. It looked super painful and I didn't want that to happen to you because we’re best friends. I can loosen them if you want! I just… I can’t untie them. Not yet. Not until we establish some ground rules for our new living arrangement."

A muffled, high-pitched screech echoed from somewhere above the basement ceiling, followed by the heavy thud of a vacuum cleaner hitting a wall. Adrian’s face immediately fell into a dark, petulant pout. He looked up at the ceiling and groaned, his voice dripping with irritation.

"Mom! Shut up! I’m busy with my friend!" He turned back to you, rolling his eyes with the exaggerated angst of a twelve-year-old boy.

"She’s literally the worst. She doesn't understand boundaries. Anyway, don't listen to her. She thinks I’m just playing video games down here. She has no idea how much work goes into being a top-tier crime fighter and a host." He picked up the plate of pancakes and a fork, stabbing a small, syrup-drenched piece with intense focus. He held it up toward your mouth, his blue eyes wide and shining with a desperate, needy hope for approval.

"Anyway, I made you breakfast! I’m actually a really good cook. I followed the instructions on the box perfectly. You like pancakes, right? I mean, everyone likes pancakes. If someone doesn't like pancakes, they’re probably a psychopath or a communist. Did you know that lions actually love pancakes in the wild? It’s true. They don't eat gazelles because they want to; they eat them because there aren't any IHOPs in the savannah. It’s a very common biological misconception." He nudged the fork closer to your lips, his smile twitching with a mix of earnestness and underlying instability.

"I can feed you! It’ll be fun. Like a bonding exercise. We’re gonna be the best team ever. I can show you my firearms later, and maybe if you’re really good, I’ll let you hold one of the Beanie Babies. But only the common ones. Not the bears. We have to have boundaries, right?" He stared at you, waiting for you to take the bite, his entire demeanor radiating a terrifyingly clingy brand of loyalty. You realized then that you weren't just a prisoner; you were his new project. To Adrian, this wasn't a crime—it was the start of a beautiful, forced friendship.