By now, the mirror had fogged over like a smudged lens into another world. Jared was deep in his shower ritual — dancing like no one was watching, music thumping, hips moving, and yes… the distinctive clap of skin-on-skin echoing in the steamy bathroom. A symphony of absurdity and confidence.
The kind of thing he'd never explain to anyone — not because he was ashamed, but because it was too sacred, too strange, too… Jared.
Sigh. If you know, you know. And if you don't — just picture someone truly free in their body, living their truth in a locked bathroom, singing off-key, and slapping his Crown Jewels to the beat like some primal drummer. He never missed this ritual. It was his moment.
Uhhhhmmm — time skip — 1:30 minutes later.
The water turned off with a squeaky twist, steam rolling like clouds down his chest as he stepped onto the cool tiles. Jared reached for the towel hanging halfway off the hook, drying his chest in slow, lazy circles. The Bluetooth speaker crooned the final notes of whatever 2000's R&B remix he'd queued up, filling the room with an echoing softness.
He turned the speaker off. Silence.
Then — click.
The bathroom lights went dark.
"What the hell—?" he muttered.
He stepped forward cautiously in the dim light bleeding in from the hallway, but his wet foot slipped on a tile. His body lurched. He reached out for the wall — missed — and slammed hard onto the ground.
Crack.
White. Blinding. Like fireworks going off behind his eyelids.
The pain pulsed behind his eyes. His head spun.
He barely had time to curse when a dark figure burst into the room. Fast. Silent. Gloved. The silhouette of the intruder moved like smoke and shadows — quick, efficient.
Jared tried to scramble up, disoriented and slippery, but a heavy blow came down on his side. A sharp grunt escaped his mouth as he tried to swing back, slipping again, blood now dripping from the side of his head.
"Get the hell off me!" Jared roared.
He fought. Clumsy and wild, but furious.
The intruder was faster. Smarter. Trained. His strikes landed precisely — a nerve pinch, a choke, a twist of the wrist — until Jared's body betrayed him, going limp despite the rage still roaring in his chest.
The last thing he remembered was cold tile on his cheek, his vision doubling, and the sight of his own blood mixing with water near the drain.
He woke briefly, but it wasn't real waking — more like a momentary drift toward the surface of consciousness. Cold. So damn cold. His skin was bare against rough carpeted flooring. Movement around him — like he was being hauled or dumped.
He was in a vehicle. The low rumble beneath him, the muffled sound of tires grinding gravel told him that much. A trunk. Cramped and dark. Something binding his wrists and ankles. His own breath, shallow and uneven.
He tried to speak — to scream — but the words stuck in his throat like smoke. He slipped away again.
——
The next time his eyes opened, everything felt too bright. Not sunlight exactly, but artificial white light from overhead.
He was lying in a bed — soft, high-thread-count sheets, a heavy comforter, pillows too clean to be comforting. The kind of bed found in a guest room no one's allowed to use. Pristine. Sanitized. Wrong.
His hands moved — or tried to. A sharp metallic clink broke the quiet.
Handcuffs.
Jared blinked hard, trying to focus. The room was large. Mansion-sized. Vaulted ceilings. Expensive paintings on the wall that screamed money more than taste. A fireplace, unlit. Thick curtains drawn closed. He was dressed now — someone had put clothes on him — but not his own. A soft grey hoodie, black joggers, no socks, no shoes.
He sat up too fast. Pain flared behind his eyes like lightning.
"What the fuck," he whispered.
No windows were open. No sounds from outside. No phone. No idea what day or time it was. He flexed his fingers, tugged at the cuffs. Sturdy. Bolted to the headboard.
Looking around the room, trying to connect something, anything that can help.
To escape or at least have an idea of where he was, why he was here.
One thing stuck out to Jared though, baby pictures! They had a semblance to him, or he thought they did. He never knew what he looked like as a baby, so how can he know that.
If he imagined himself as a baby, the pictures told him that's how he would imagine himself-
The door opened.
He froze. Eyes to the door.
A man walked in. Clean cut. Maybe late 40s. Dressed like some hedge fund psycho trying to play casual — dark jeans, collared shirt under a cardigan. Like Mr. Rogers, but with menace.
"Ah, you're awake," the man said calmly, almost too calmly. His voice was smooth. Practiced.
"Where the hell am I?" Jared snapped, pulling at the cuffs. "Who the fuck are you?"
"You're safe," the man replied, stepping closer. "For now."
"Safe? You broke into my house, knocked me out, kidnapped me naked, and shoved me into your goddamn trunk!"
The man gave a small, almost sympathetic smile. "That part wasn't ideal, I admit. But necessary. And you're… interesting, Jared."
Jared's mouth went dry.
"What do you want?"
The man didn't answer right away. He walked to the corner of the room, pouring himself a glass of water from a pitcher like this was all perfectly normal.
Jared stared at him, veins pulsing in his temple, heart hammering. "If this is about money—"
"It's not," the man cut him off. "You'll come to understand in time. But first… rest. You've had a concussion. A bad one. And we had to make sure you survived."
"We?" Jared asked sharply.
The man didn't reply. He walked to the door, pausing in the doorway.
"You'll have visitors soon. Don't panic. No one wants to hurt you. At least… the family."
He walked out, shutting the door behind him with a soft click that sounded too final.
Jared stared at the door for what felt like hours. He tried to recall everything — the shower, the slip, the fight, the darkness, the ride. Nothing made sense. His head ached. The cuffs dug into his skin every time he moved. This wasn't some bad joke or elaborate prank. This was real.
He was in some rich psycho's house.
Naked, he'd been kidnapped. Dressed by strangers. Locked in a luxurious cage.
With baby pictures of what he though was of himself, and them talking about family!
And worst of all — that phone call kept replaying, over and over in his head!