The Velvet Prisoner

It began on a Friday night. The kind of night where neon dripped down expensive windows, and bass lines throbbed like a shared heartbeat between strangers. Ambrosia, the most exclusive rooftop bar in the city, glittered with alcohol, sex, and power. And in the center of it all stood Lysander Vale - sleek suit, Rolex glinting, jaw relaxed in practiced arrogance.

He leaned against the velvet booth, a glass of hundred-year-old Scotch in hand, two women whispering in his ears like moths drawn to royalty. “You're so hard to approach, Mr. Vale…How do you even look like that? You don’t even try, do you?”

Lysander smirked, sipping slowly. "I try not to breathe the same air as mediocrity. That helps.”

He didn’t notice the man across the bar - the one who had been watching him for twenty minutes. Or the second glass set quietly beside his own, filled with something much stronger than whiskey.

Ten minutes later.

The room was beginning to tilt. He blinked. Once. Twice. Everything looked like it was being painted underwater. The women’s voices became echoey, slippery things. “What the fuck…” His fingers trembled around the glass. “This isn’t… right.”

He tried to stand. His knees buckled. Panic began to flicker behind his pale eyes. Before he could call security - or move - they arrived.

Two men. Huge. Broad like walking slabs of concrete. Dressed in cheap black hoodies but moved with military precision. “Got him,” one muttered. “He’s light. Upper body, now.”

He tried to fight. His limbs didn’t work. His mouth moved, but his voice was trapped behind his teeth. “No... you— you idiots—do you know who I am?!”

The first man chuckled as he hoisted Lysander’s limp body like a sack of meat. “Yeah, rich kid with daddy issues. And a big fucking wallet.” “Shut up and load him. She doesn’t like late deliveries.”

In the back of the van, the cold bit into his skin. Lysander’s vision was a whirl of flickering lights and the rhythmic thud of tires over potholes. His wrists were already tied. Zip-ties bit into his skin. He gagged once—something foul in his throat, maybe leftover alcohol or fear.

“She said no bruises on the face.” “Then let’s not bruise it. He’s pretty. Pretty boys fetch longer attention.” The van swerved. Someone adjusted his head, not gently. Fingers slapped his cheek.

“Hey, golden boy. Wake up. We’re almost home.” Lysander’s eyes fluttered. His head lolled, neck stiff. He saw the vague outline of iron bars in the shadows. He heard the screech of gates opening. And the final words before everything turned black:

“Now, let’s see if money can buy him dignity.”

He awoke on concrete.

Stripped of his jacket, shoes, and pride. His wrists chained to iron loops in the wall. A camera above blinked silently. A collar lay on the floor nearby. Leather. Polished. Waiting. His voice cracked when he tried to scream. “HELLO?! HELLO?! I’ll pay you-whatever she’s offering, I’ll triple it! I-...God damn it, I’ll sue you all into extinction!”

Footsteps. Laughter. Boots echoing down metal stairs.

The goons returned. “Still has a mouth, huh.? She’ll fix that. Just wait.”

One of them dropped a bowl beside him. Plain porridge. No spoon. A dog’s bowl. Lysander stared at it, chest heaving.

“…You fucking animals.”

The man leaned in, smiling. “You’ll eat when you’re told you’re pretty. And you better mean it.”

The sound of stilettos echoed - slow, deliberate, slicing through the silence like a blade. The guards straightened immediately, stepping aside with robotic obedience.

“She’s here,” one of them muttered, eyes lowered. “Don’t stare. You know the rules.”

Lysander, still on the floor, lifted his head with effort. His hair clung damp to his forehead, chains clinking with every breath. He blinked blearily, his eyes adjusting to the figure approaching - silhouette sharp, presence suffocating.

He squinted“…You’re the one behind this, aren’t you? What do you want from me? Ransom? Revenge? Or just fun?” His voice cracked at the edges, a mix of fear, fury, and disbelief. He dragged himself upright as much as the chains allowed, gaze locking onto hers.