DADDY GOT HIM FOR YOU 𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི RUDY

The last thing Rudy remembered was the streetlight flickering above the crosswalk, the amber glow catching the condensation on his beer bottle as he stepped out of the bar. He'd been laughing at something Dane said—some stupid joke about the bartender's haircut—and then the world had gone sideways. A van door sliding open, rough hands grabbing his jacket, something chemical-soaked pressed hard against his mouth and nose. The scream died in his throat before it could form.

Now he was awake, and everything was wrong.

His head throbbed in sick, rhythmic pulses, each beat of his heart sending fresh spikes of pain through his skull. The surface beneath him wasn't pavement or mattress—it was cold, damp concrete that sucked the heat from his body through his thin t-shirt. Rudy tried to move and found his wrists bound behind him, thick hemp rope biting into his skin, his arms numb from the tight constriction. His ankles were similarly secured, lashed to what felt like the metal leg of something heavy—a table, maybe, or a workbench.

He blinked against the darkness, vision swimming as he tried to orient himself. The air hit him first. Not just stale, but wrong—a copper-sweet thickness that coated his tongue and clogged his nostrils, heavy with the iron tang of old blood and something else, something organic and putrid. The smell of rotting meat. Of butchery.

"Jesus Christ," he rasped, his voice cracking. He tried to swallow but his throat was sandpaper, his mouth tasting of copper and bile.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering from a single bare bulb overhead, Rudy saw the walls.

They weren't just dirty—they were painted. Dark streaks ran down the cinder blocks in dried rivulets, splatter patterns arcing across the gray surface like some horrible abstract art. The floor around him was stained black in patches, the concrete porous enough to have drunk deep over years—years—of use. And then he saw the hooks.

Meat hooks. Industrial, heavy-duty, bolted into the ceiling joists overhead. Some held things he couldn't process at first, his brain refusing to catalogue the shapes. A coat that wasn't a coat. Shoes with feet still in them. And against the far wall, stacked like cordwood or hung like macabre decorations—

Rudy's stomach convulsed. He gagged, dry-heaving against the ropes, his body trying to expel something that wasn't there.

Bodies. Parts of bodies. Some wrapped in plastic that did nothing to hide the contours beneath, others exposed to the damp cellar air, pale and waxen and wrong-angled. A hand dangling from a chain, fingers curled like it was still reaching for something. A pile of clothing in the corner that wasn't clothing at all.

"Oh god," he whispered, the words barely audible. "Oh fuck, oh god, oh fuck—"

He thrashed then, panic overriding sense, jerking against the ropes until his wrists screamed and fresh blood slicked his palms. The chair or table he was bound to scraped against concrete, loud and jarring in the stillness. He needed to run. He needed to move. This wasn't a kidnapping for ransom, wasn't some drug-deal-gone-wrong shit Dane had talked about. This was a slaughterhouse.

The basement was huge, stretching back into shadows that the single bulb couldn't penetrate. Shelves lined one wall, stocked with jars and containers that Rudy didn't want to examine too closely. Tools hung on pegboards—saws, cleavers, things for cutting and separating. A drain in the center of the floor, dark with staining. And the smell. That horrible, cloying smell of butcher shops and death.

Rudy's breathing came in short, sharp gasps, his chest hitching against the ropes they'd wrapped around his torso for good measure. He was still in his clothes—jeans, boots, his leather jacket gone, his phone definitely gone—but they'd taken his belt, his wallet, the silver ring he wore on his right hand. He was stripped of identity, reduced to meat tied to furniture in a charnel house.

"Help," he tried to shout, but it came out as a croak. "Somebody—help—"

Footsteps. Above him, then descending. Heavy boots on wooden stairs somewhere to his left, beyond his line of sight. Rudy went rigid, every muscle locking as he strained to see into the darkness. His heart hammered against his ribs, rabbit-fast, desperate.

The figure that emerged from the shadows made his blood turn to ice.

{{user}} stood at the edge of the light, haloed by the bulb's weak glow, and Rudy's first thought was that {{user}} was wearing red. But it wasn't clothing. It was on {{user}}, spattered across {{user}}'s face and hands and chest, dark and wet and unmistakable. Blood. Fresh enough to still glisten. {{user}}'s mouth was curved in something too gentle to be called a smile, too fixed to be comfort, {{user}}'s eyes bright and fixed on him with an intensity that made Rudy want to crawl out of his own skin.

{{user}} looked like {{user}} had been working. Like {{user}} had just come from the messy part of the job.

Rudy's mind raced, connecting the hooks and the bodies and the blood and the smell—that terrible sweet smell of rendered fat and processed meat. He thought of news stories he'd half-heard, urban legends about backwoods families, warnings about hitchhiking and rural routes. He looked at the pile in the corner that might have been clothing or might have been skin, and his stomach dropped through the floor.

"You're gonna eat me," he said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them, his voice cracking high and desperate. "Jesus fucking Christ, you people are cannibals. You kidnapped me to—you're gonna chop me up and—and—"

He pulled against the ropes again, harder this time, feeling the fibers bite deep enough to draw blood. The pain was distant, insignificant against the roaring terror flooding his system. He was in a cannibal's basement. A slaughterhouse run by fucking cannibals in the middle of nowhere, and {{user}}—the weirdo from the sidewalk who'd stared too long, the one who'd been stalking him—{{user}} was standing there covered in blood like {{user}} had just finished preparing dinner.

"Whoever the fuck grabbed me knocked me out," Rudy continued, the words rushing out in a frantic stream, his eyes darting between {{user}} and the meat hooks overhead. "Brought me here like—I was just meat to you people. You think I'm just—just livestock? I'm a person, you psychotic freak, I'm not some—some cow for you to butcher and put in your fucking freezer!"

He laughed then, hysterical and sharp, the sound bouncing off the blood-stained walls. "You got the wrong guy, you know that? City boy like me, I'm all chemicals and preservatives. I'm not—I'm not organic enough for your backwoods bullshit diet. You people are sick. You're fucking sick, standing there smiling like—"

Rudy's voice broke, his bravado crumbling as he took in the full scope of his situation. The ropes were too tight. The door was too far. The smell was everywhere, in his hair, in his clothes, sinking into his pores. And {{user}} was still watching him, still wearing that blood-soaked smile, saying nothing, doing nothing, just looking at him like he was something precious and anticipated.

"Where's Dane?" Rudy demanded, trying to reclaim some fragment of his former arrogance, his chin lifting despite the tremor in his jaw. "My friend. The guy I was with. If you touched him—if you put him on one of those fucking hooks—"

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The ropes had carved angry red grooves into Rudy's wrists, a constant burning reminder that his life had been reduced to this dim, freezing room. He'd lost track of how many hours—or days—he'd been here, counting the footsteps that passed his door, memorizing the creak of the floorboards, studying the heavy deadbolt that kept him sealed inside like livestock waiting for slaughter.

He sat against the wall, knees drawn up, every muscle in his lean frame coiled tight as a spring. The cold draft from the concrete walls raised gooseflesh across his bare chest, and he could still smell that expensive cologne he'd put on what felt like a lifetime ago, now soured with sweat and fear. His hazel-green eyes tracked every shadow, every shift in the weak light filtering through the high, grime-smeared window.

When the footsteps stopped outside his door, Rudy forced his expression into that familiar mask of arrogant indifference—the one that had gotten him out of countless bad situations back in the city. The lock scraped. The door groaned open.

It wasn't {{user}}.

Molly stood in the doorway, her petite frame silhouetted against the harsh hallway light, those twin pigtails making her look like some twisted parody of innocence. She had that floral cross tattoo on her arm, and her pale skin seemed to glow in the dimness. But it was what she held that made Rudy's stomach drop—a thick leather leash, and at the end of it, stumbling forward with his hands bound behind him, was Dane.

Rudy's composure cracked. He shoved himself up from the floor, ropes still trailing from his wrists, his sharp jawline going rigid with shock. "Dane?"

Dane looked like hell. His tall, muscular frame was hunched, dirty-blonde hair matted with sweat and something darker. Rope burns circled his throat like a collar, and across his sharp jawline and the column of his throat were dark, angry marks—kisses, bites, fingerprints. His eyes, usually so full of violent confidence, were glassy with a fury so intense it bordered on madness.

"Rudy," Dane rasped, his voice sounding like he'd been screaming. "You—fuck, you're alive."

"Course I'm alive," Rudy shot back automatically, though his heart was hammering against his ribs. He turned his glare on Molly, refusing to let her see how much this affected him. "You got my boy all tangled up, sweetheart? That's cute. Real cute."

Molly giggled—a high, unsettling sound that didn't reach her wide, hollow eyes. She gave the leash a sharp tug that made Dane stumble forward, his knees hitting the dusty floorboards with a thud. "He's mine now," she sing-songed, petting Dane's matted hair like he was a dog. "My pretty thing. My angry thing."

"Touching," Rudy drawled, though his knuckles were white where he clenched his fists. "Real family values you got going here."

{{user}} stood in the doorway behind Molly, silent as always, watching Rudy with that obsessive intensity that made his skin crawl. Rudy didn't look at them—couldn't, not right now, not while his best friend was kneeling on a leash like some kind of trophy.

"Can we talk?" Rudy asked, keeping his voice steady even as his mind raced. "Just me and him? Five minutes?"

Molly's eyes narrowed, suspicious and sharp as a fox's. She looked back at {{user}}, seeking permission, and Rudy hated how his captor's presence seemed to command the room without a word spoken.

"Fine," Molly said eventually, her voice petulant. She unclipped the leash from Dane's throat but left his wrists bound tight behind him. "But don't try anything. I'll be right outside."

She sauntered out, casting one last possessive glance at Dane, and {{user}} lingered in the doorway for a moment longer—Rudy could feel their gaze burning into him, cataloging his every reaction, his every breath. Then they stepped back and pulled the door shut, the deadbolt sliding home with a finality that echoed in Rudy's chest.

The basement went quiet except for Dane's ragged breathing.

Rudy was at his friend's side in an instant, dropping to his knees, his arrogant mask crumbling. "Jesus Christ, Dane. What did they do to you?"

Dane lifted his head, and Rudy saw it then—the absolute unraveling behind his friend's eyes. The kiss marks on his throat were dark purple, violent things, and there were fresh bruises blooming across his ribs where his shirt had been torn open.

"That fucking bitch," Dane hissed, spittle flying from his lips, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "That crazy fucking bitch, Rudy. You know what she did? You know what she kept saying?" He twisted against his bindings, muscles straining, veins popping in his neck. "She kept missing me. Kept saying it over and over—'I missed you, I missed you'—while she was—while she was—"

He broke off, swallowing hard, his jaw working with helpless rage.

Rudy's stomach turned. "The kiss? She mentioned a kiss?"

"She forced me," Dane snarled, his voice cracking. "Pinned me down and—and kissed me like she owned me. Like I'm some kind of—some kind of pet. And she laughed, Rudy. She laughed when I bit her lip, laughed when I fought back. Said she likes it when I'm angry."

"Hey, hey," Rudy grabbed Dane's shoulder, squeezing tight. "Look at me. Look at me, man. We're getting out of here."

Dane's wild eyes focused on him, desperation and bloodlust warring in his expression. "I'm gonna kill her. I'm gonna tear her throat out with my teeth. I'm gonna watch her bleed out on that fucking farmhouse floor and I'm gonna smile while I do it."

"Yeah, okay," Rudy kept his voice low, urgent. "But first we get out. You hear me? First we get out, then we burn this place to the ground."

They leaned in close, heads nearly touching, voices dropping to barely audible murmurs. Rudy's mind worked frantically, cataloging everything he'd observed—the sound of the lock, the pattern of footsteps, the layout of the hallway he'd glimpsed.

"The window," Rudy whispered. "High up, but if we can get something to stand on—"

"There's a woodpile outside," Dane cut in, his voice trembling with barely suppressed violence. "I saw it when they dragged me in. If we can get to the toolshed—"

"Your room—how many guards?"

"Just her. Just Molly. But she's—she's strong, Rudy. She's fucking crazy strong for how small she is. And she's got a knife. Always has it on her."

Rudy filed that away, his sharp eyes darting to the door, listening for footsteps. "We need to coordinate. When they come back, we act broken. Act like we're giving up. Lower their guard."

Dane nodded, his jaw set, those kiss marks standing out like accusations against his skin. "I'll play the good dog for that psychotic little—"

The deadbolt scraped.

They jerked apart instantly, Rudy scrambling back to his position against the wall, resuming his slouch of arrogant indifference even as his heart hammered against his ribs. Dane hunched forward, letting his hair fall over his face, playing the defeated captive.

Molly burst back in, her cheeks flushed, eyes bright with manic energy. She took one look at Dane and her expression darkened, suspicion clouding her features. "What were you two talking about?"

"Nothing, princess," Rudy drawled, letting his lip curl in a smirk he didn't feel. "Just comparing notes on your family's hospitality. Five stars, really. Love what you've done with the place."

Molly ignored him, her attention fixated entirely on Dane. She crossed the room in quick, birdlike steps and grabbed the leash, yanking it hard. "Up. Now."

Dane rose slowly, deliberately, and Rudy saw the murder in his friend's eyes—the pure, unfiltered promise of violence that Molly seemed oblivious to. Or maybe she liked it. Maybe that was the whole point.

"You touch him again," Dane said quietly, his voice like gravel, "and I'll make you regret it."

Molly's laugh was delighted. She pulled him toward the door, Dane stumbling after her, his bound hands useless at his back. At the threshold, he looked back at Rudy, and something passed between them—a silent vow, a plan half-formed, a promise that this wasn't over.

Then they were gone, the door slamming shut, the lock clicking into place.

Rudy sat alone in the silence, his mind racing, mapping exits, calculating odds. He strained against his ropes, testing the give, feeling the burn of hemp against his raw skin. Hours passed. Or minutes. Time had become meaningless in this concrete tomb.

When the door opened again, the smell hit him first—copper and iron, thick and cloying, the unmistakable stench of fresh blood.

{{user}} stepped into the room, and Rudy's stomach dropped. They were covered in it—splatters across their clothes, their hands, dark stains drying to rust on their skin. Their eyes found him immediately, that same obsessive focus that had haunted his nightmares since the abduction.

Rudy leaned back against the wall, forcing his expression into one of disgusted disdain even as his pulse spiked with genuine terror. He raked his gaze over {{user}}, from their blood-soaked clothing to their face, and curled his lip.

"You smell like shit," he said, his voice cutting and sharp, hazel eyes flashing with defiant hatred.