The Twins

 

Chapter 1: The Taking

Bobby and Billy Benson were scared. The twins, 18, lay on the floor bound hand and foot with ropes the home invaders used when they broke in. Bobby, in his white muscle shirt and red track pants, again tested the ropes binding his wrists behind his back. "Not too tight," he thought. Billy, wearing only his trackies and socks, was doing the same.

"We can get out of this when they leave and call the cops," Billy whispered, his mouth pressed against the rug to muffle his words.

"Yeah," Bobby said, "I tied you tighter in our escape game last weekend!"

With that, they heard the burglars returning, carrying cash bags from their parents' safe.

"About fifty grand here, boys, but we want more."

In a flash they were grabbed, chloroform rags shoved over their faces. Both boys were carried out tied and unconscious to a van—and to hell.

The last thing Bobby remembered was the smell of old leather seats and the sound of gravel crunching under tires as they pulled away from the only home they'd ever known.

Chapter 2: The Discovery

Dr. Margaret Benson's hands trembled as she stared at the email on her laptop screen. The ransom demand was simple: two million dollars for the safe return of her sons. But it was the attached photo that made her stomach turn.

Her husband, Dr. Robert Benson, paced behind her in their study, his usually calm demeanor shattered. "We pay it," he said for the third time. "We liquidate everything if we have to."

"Bob, look at this photo again," Margaret whispered, zooming in on the image. Bobby and Billy hung suspended in what looked like an old cabin, their young bodies strung up back-to-back, arms raised and bound together above their heads. Red circular targets had been drawn across their bare chests and stomachs in what looked like marker.

"I don't care about the theatrics," Robert snapped. "They want money, we give them money. End of story."

Neither parent heard their oldest son, Brad, slip into the doorway. At 19, he was home from his freshman year at A&M, and the sight of his parents hunched over the laptop made his blood run cold.

"Mom? Dad? Any word on—" He stopped mid-sentence as he glimpsed the screen over his mother's shoulder.

"Brad, don't," Margaret said quickly, but it was too late. He'd seen everything.

Brad stared at the image of his twin brothers, and unlike his parents, he didn't see a ransom photo. He saw a death sentence. Those targets weren't just for intimidation—they were practice marks. And he knew something his parents didn't: Bobby and Billy had seen their captors' faces.

"We're calling the police," Brad said quietly.

"Absolutely not," Robert turned on him. "The note says no police or they're dead."

"Dad, they're dead anyway.

"Chapter 3: The Heat

Bobby's mouth felt like sandpaper. He tried to swallow, but there was nothing left. The gag had been soaked through with saliva hours ago, now it was just a dry rag cutting into the corners of his mouth.

"Billy?" he tried to whisper, but only a croak came out.

Behind him, pressed back-to-back, Billy's body trembled. Not from fear anymore—from exhaustion. Their arms had gone numb hours ago, suspended above their heads by the rope that connected their bound wrists to the cabin beam. What had started as uncomfortable was now agony.

The thermometer on the cabin wall read 95 degrees. The humidity made the air thick as soup. Sweat poured down their faces, their chests, soaking into the ropes that circled their torsos. Bobby realized with growing horror that the ropes were getting tighter as the moisture made them contract.

"It's not the ropes," he thought dimly. "It's the sweat. It's killing us."

Billy's head lolled against his shoulder. His twin was fading faster—always the smaller of the two, always the one who needed more water during wrestling practice.

The red targets drawn on their chests had begun to smear and run in the heat. Bobby stared down at the bullseye painted over his heart and finally understood what Brad would have seen immediately: these weren't just threats.

They were aiming points.

Outside, a truck engine rumbled to life. The kidnappers were leaving again, probably to check on the ransom transfer. Bobby tried to call out, but his voice was gone. All he could do was hang there in the stifling heat and wait.

Twenty-four hours. That's what they'd said. Twenty-four hours to get the money, then they'd be back to "clean up loose ends."Chapter 4: The Coach

Coach Martinez found Brad sitting in the empty wrestling room at 2 AM, staring at his phone. The overhead fluorescents cast harsh shadows across the mats where Bobby and Billy had practiced their escapes just days before.

"Your mom called me," Martinez said, settling his bulk onto the bleachers. "Said you stormed out after they refused to call the police."

Brad held up his phone, showing the tracking app. "Bobby's cell. The kidnappers took it with them. It's been moving between the same three locations for the past six hours."

Martinez studied the screen. He'd coached in this county for fifteen years, knew every back road and hunting cabin. "That's the old Hendricks place. Been abandoned since the oil dried up."

"Coach, they're going to kill them." Brad's voice cracked. "Even if Mom and Dad pay the ransom. Those targets in the photo—"

"I saw the photo your mother forwarded." Martinez's jaw tightened. "You're right. This isn't about money anymore."

Brad looked up at him. "Will you help me?"

Martinez was quiet for a long moment. He thought about Bobby and Billy, how they'd stayed after practice to help the younger kids with their holds. How they'd driven him home when his truck broke down last month. How they called him "Pops" when they thought he couldn't hear.

"How many boys can you get together in the next hour?"

"All of them."

"Then let's bring our boys home."

Chapter 5: The Search

By dawn, twelve wrestlers and their coach were spread across the county in pickup trucks, following dirt roads that barely showed up on GPS. Brad rode shotgun in Martinez's F-150, watching the phone's blinking dot move in erratic patterns.

"They're nervous," Martinez observed, noting how the kidnappers had circled back to the same gas station twice. "Getting sloppy."

Brad's phone buzzed. A text from his mother: Police say they'll negotiate. Come home.

He showed Martinez the message. The coach grunted. "Your call, son."

"They don't get it." Brad's voice was hoarse from coordinating search teams all night. "By the time they negotiate, Bobby and Billy will be target practice."

The radio crackled. "Coach, this is Danny. We got eyes on a white pickup at the Chevron on County Road 12. Two men inside, looking agitated."

Martinez grabbed the radio. "Stay back, Danny. Just observe."

Brad watched the phone's signal. It had stopped moving. "Coach, they're not going back to the cabin. They're heading toward the interstate."

"Smart move. Get the ransom, then disappear." Martinez's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. "But they'll have to come back for the twins first."

"Unless they don't plan to."

Both men went quiet. On the radio, Danny's voice crackled again: "Coach, they're on the move. Heading north on 12."

Brad stared at the phone tracking his brothers' location. The dot wasn't moving with the truck anymore. The kidnappers had left the phone behind.

"They're going back," he whispered. "They're going back to finish it."

Chapter 6: The Roadblock

The state police cruiser's lights painted the early morning sky red and blue as it blocked Highway 287. Brad watched from Martinez's truck as the white pickup screeched to a halt fifty yards ahead, boxed in by three more patrol cars that had appeared from the mesquite brush.

"That's them," Brad said into his radio. "White Chevy, license plate matches what Danny called in."

Through binoculars, Martinez watched two men emerge from the truck with their hands raised. One carried a duffel bag that looked heavy with cash. "Your parents' money," he said grimly.

Brad's phone rang. His mother's voice was frantic. "Brad, where are you? The police have the kidnappers, but they won't tell us where Bobby and Billy are. They're demanding lawyers."

"Mom, how long have they been in custody?"

"Twenty minutes. Why?"

Brad felt ice in his veins. The twins had been hanging in that cabin for over thirty hours now. In this heat, with no water, every minute counted.

"They're not talking," he told Martinez. "The kidnappers are just going to let them die."

Martinez keyed his radio. "All units, this is Coach. We're going to every abandoned structure in a fifteen-mile radius. Split into teams of three. Look for tire tracks, fresh disturbance, anything."

"Coach," came Danny's voice, "that's a lot of ground."

"Then we better move fast," Martinez replied. "Those boys have been hanging for thirty-one hours."

Brad stared at the arrested kidnappers being loaded into patrol cars. They looked almost relieved to be caught—like they knew their part was over, and now it was just a matter of time.

"They planned this," Brad said quietly. "They knew we'd catch them eventually. They're counting on us not finding Bobby and Billy before..."

He couldn't finish the sentence.

Chapter 7: The Ropes

Hour thirty-six. Bobby's vision blurred as he tried to focus on the cabin wall. The thermometer had climbed to 98 degrees, but the humidity made it feel like breathing through a wet towel.

The rope burns on his wrists had stopped bleeding hours ago, but the raw flesh screamed every time he shifted his weight. Behind him, Billy's breathing had become shallow and irregular. His twin's head kept lolling forward, then jerking back up as consciousness flickered.

"Billy," Bobby tried to whisper through the gag, but his throat was too dry to make sound.

The ropes around their torsos had tightened as their sweat soaked the fibers. What had started as restraints were now slowly crushing their ribcages. Each breath required more effort than the last.

Bobby stared down at the red target painted on his chest. The marker had run in the heat, creating bloody-looking streaks down his torso. He understood now why Brad would have seen death in that photo—not just the targets, but the impossibility of survival.

Their legs had gone completely numb. The ropes binding their ankles had cut off circulation hours ago, but Bobby almost welcomed the numbness. It was better than the agony in his shoulders and wrists.

A fly buzzed around Billy's face, landing on his sweat-soaked forehead. Billy couldn't even twitch to brush it away.

Bobby closed his eyes and tried to think of the wrestling room, of cold water fountains and air conditioning. But all he could hear was the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears, and Billy's labored breathing getting weaker behind him.

Hour thirty-seven. The sun climbed higher, and the cabin became a furnace.

Chapter 8: The Search Intensifies

Hour thirty-seven. Brad's hands shook as he marked another cabin off the map. Empty. Just like the last four.

"Nothing at the old Miller place," came Danny's voice over the radio. "Moving to the creek bottom structures."

Martinez wiped sweat from his forehead. The sun was climbing higher, and if it was this hot outside, that cabin was becoming an oven. "How many boys we got left searching?"

"Eight teams still out," Brad replied, his voice barely holding steady. "Coach, what if we're wrong about the fifteen-mile radius?"

"We're not wrong." Martinez's voice was firm, but Brad caught the edge of doubt. "Your brothers are tough kids. Wrestling tough."

Brad thought about Bobby and Billy hanging there, dehydrating in the heat. Wrestling tough only went so far when you couldn't move, couldn't drink, couldn't even wipe the sweat from your eyes.

His phone buzzed. A text from his father: Come home. Police have dogs now. This is their job.

"Police dogs," Brad showed Martinez the message.

"Good. More help." Martinez keyed the radio. "All units, state police are bringing in K-9 units. Anyone got structures near water? Dogs will need to start somewhere with scent."

"Coach, this is Tommy. We found fresh tire tracks at the old Hendricks hunting cabin. Deep ruts, recent."

Brad's heart hammered. "That's it. That has to be it."

"Hold position, Tommy. We're coming to you."

As Martinez gunned the engine, Brad stared at the clock on the dashboard. Hour thirty-seven. His brothers had been hanging for thirty-seven hours.

"Hold on," he whispered. "Just hold on."

Chapter 9: The Discovery

Hour forty-seven. Tommy's voice crackled through the radio with barely controlled excitement. "Coach, we found them. Old Hendricks cabin, half-mile past the cattle guard. You need to get here now."

Brad's hands trembled as he grabbed the radio. "Are they—"

"They're alive," Tommy cut him off. "But Coach, you need to hurry. They're in bad shape."

Martinez floored the accelerator, the F-150 bouncing over the rutted dirt road. Through the windshield, Brad could see the weathered cabin emerging from the mesquite. Tommy's truck was parked outside, and three other wrestlers stood by the door, their faces pale.

"Danny's already called the ambulance," Tommy said as they pulled up. "But we can't get them down. The ropes are too tight, and they're barely conscious."

Brad bolted from the truck and pushed through the cabin door. The smell hit him first—sweat, fear, and something else. Desperation. Then he saw them.

Bobby and Billy hung suspended exactly as they had in the photo, but forty-seven hours had transformed them. Their bodies were dehydrated, rope burns angry red welts around their wrists and necks. The targets on their chests had smeared into grotesque streaks.

"Jesus," Martinez breathed behind him.

Bobby's eyes fluttered open at the sound of voices. When he saw Brad, something like relief flickered across his face, but he was too weak to speak through the gag.

"We need to cut them down carefully," Martinez said, pulling out his knife. "These ropes have cut off circulation. If we do this wrong..."

Brad stared at the deep rope burns cutting into his brothers' flesh, the purple welts where the bonds had tightened with each hour. Another few hours and the damage would have been permanent. Another day and they would have been cutting down bodies.

The ambulance screamed to a halt outside, followed by police cars. Through the cabin door, Brad saw his parents stumbling out of a patrol car, his mother's face white with terror.

As the paramedics worked to free Bobby and Billy, carefully cutting each rope while monitoring their vitals, Brad watched his brothers' eyes. They were alive, but barely. The twins who had joked about escaping anything could now only nod weakly as they were lowered onto stretchers.

"We're following the ambulance," his father said, grabbing Brad's shoulder. "You did it, son. You found them."

Brad nodded, but all he could see were those rope burns, and all he could think was how close forty-seven hours had come to being forever.

The Rich Kid

 

Chapter 1

Ray Renzo was bored.

The Renzo estate stretched for forty-three acres of manicured lawns, ornamental gardens, and imported marble fountains that cost more than most people's houses. At nineteen, Ray had walked every path, swum in both pools, and driven his ATVs through every trail in the private woods. Today felt like every other day—endless and empty.

He wandered past the tennis courts where his father occasionally entertained business associates, past the stable where horses worth more than luxury cars stood in climate-controlled stalls. The afternoon heat made his white tank top cling to his skin, and he wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Even his expensive jeans felt heavy in the humidity.

The staff nodded respectfully as he passed. Maria, the head housekeeper. James, the groundskeeper. People who had worked here longer than Ray had been alive, people whose names his father barely remembered.

Maybe I'll take the Porsche into town. Maybe I'll call Jackson and see if he wants to hit the club.

But even those thoughts felt hollow. Everything felt hollow lately.

The sun was setting when Ray heard the ATV engines. Multiple engines, coming fast through the woods. He paused near the fountain, mildly curious. Sweat trickled down his back despite the cooling air. The staff sometimes used the farm vehicles for maintenance, but not this late, and not moving that fast.

Three ATVs burst from the tree line, kicking up dirt across the pristine lawn. Ray squinted against the headlights. These weren't the estate's vehicles—these were older, rougher, the kind used for actual work instead of weekend rides.

"Ray Renzo?" The voice came from the lead ATV as the engines died.

"Yeah?" Ray took a step forward, then stopped. Something in the man's tone made his stomach tighten. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

"Your daddy's expecting you."

"My father's in Switzerland. He won't be back for—"

The men were already moving. Three of them, faces Ray had never seen, moving with the kind of purpose that made his privileged world suddenly feel very small. One held something that caught the light—a pistol, held low but visible.

"Get in the ATV."

"I'm not going anywhere with—"

The gun came up. Not pointed at him, exactly, but unmistakably there. "Get in the ATV, rich boy."

Ray's legs felt disconnected from his body as he climbed into the back of the lead vehicle. His white tank top was already soaked with nervous sweat, clinging to his chest and back. The seat was cracked vinyl, nothing like the leather interiors he was used to. One of the men climbed in beside him, close enough that Ray could smell sweat and cigarettes.

"Where are we going?"

"For a ride."

The ATV lurched forward, and Ray grabbed the roll bar as they headed not toward the main road, but deeper into the estate's woods. Then beyond the estate, into forests Ray had never seen, down trails that seemed to exist only for people who needed to disappear.

The ride stretched on. One hour. Two. Ray's body ached from the constant bouncing, and sweat poured down his face despite the cooling night air. His jeans chafed against his legs, and his tank top was completely soaked through. The trees grew thicker, the trails narrower. This wasn't his world anymore. This was somewhere else entirely.

When they finally stopped, Ray's legs were shaking as he climbed out. His clothes stuck to his body, and he could taste salt on his lips.

The cabin squatted in front of them like something from a nightmare. Weather-beaten wood, broken windows, a door hanging crooked on its hinges. Weeds grew through the porch boards. This was the kind of place that didn't exist on any map his father's money could buy.

"Welcome to your new home, rich boy."

Ray stared at the cabin, his mind struggling to process what was happening. Sweat stung his eyes. An hour ago he'd been wandering manicured gardens, bored with his perfect life. Now he was staring at a place that looked like people went to die.

"Please," he heard himself say, though his voice sounded strange and small. "My father has money. Whatever you want—"

"We know what your daddy has." The man with the gun gestured toward the cabin. "Question is whether he thinks you're worth it."

They dragged him inside, and Ray's expensive shoes slipped on the warped floorboards. The place smelled like mold and animal droppings. A single room with a stone fireplace, rotting wooden beams, and dust motes dancing in the fading light. Sweat dripped from his chin onto the dusty floor.

"On your stomach."

Ray's legs gave out, and he collapsed to his knees on the filthy floor. "Please don't—"

"Face down, rich boy."

The rough wooden planks scraped against his cheek as they forced him down. His soaked tank top absorbed the grime and dust from the floor.

"Hands behind your back."

This is when they'll realize they've made a mistake. When they see I'm just a kid who goes to Princeton and drives his father's car and has never hurt anyone.

But the rope came out first. Thick, coarse hemp that looked like it had been used to tie down farm equipment. It went around his wrists, tight against his sweaty skin. The salt from his perspiration made the rope burn as they pulled it tighter.

"Cross your wrists. Higher."

They yanked his arms up behind his back until his shoulders screamed. The position was unnatural, painful. More rope wound around his forearms, creating a binding that pulled his shoulder blades together.

"Ankles."

The second man—younger, nervous—grabbed Ray's legs and bent them back. Ray felt his knees scrape against the dirty floor as they forced his heels toward his bound hands. More rope, connecting his ankles to the arm restraints behind his back.

"Not too tight," the leader said. "We want him alive. But make sure he can't move."

The rope was adjusted with a slip knot system. Every time Ray tried to straighten his legs to relieve the pressure on his arms, the rope tightened. When he bent his knees to ease his shoulders, it pulled his wrists higher, making his arms burn.

"Open your mouth."

Ray's jaw clenched involuntarily. "I won't scream. I promise I won't—"

The duct tape went across his lips, sealing the words inside. Strip after strip, wrapping around his head until he could barely move his jaw. The adhesive pulled at his sweaty skin, and breathing became a conscious effort through his nose.

"There." The man with the gun stepped back to admire their work. "Comfortable?"

Ray lay on his side, his body contorted in a position that was already becoming unbearable. Sweat pooled beneath him on the dirty floor. His expensive jeans were stained with dust and grime. Every movement made the rope tighter.

"Wait." The word came out as a muffled grunt against the tape. "WAIT."

The door slammed shut.

The silence that followed was absolute.

For the first time in his nineteen years, Ray Renzo was completely alone. And he was already sweating more than he ever had in his pampered life, bound in a position that would only get worse with time.

Chapter 2

The first hour was panic.

Ray thrashed against the ropes, testing every knot, every angle. His wrists burned where the hemp bit into his skin, made worse by the sweat that kept pouring down his arms. The slip knot system was diabolical—every attempt to relieve the pressure on his shoulders by straightening his legs only made the rope around his wrists tighter. When he bent his knees to ease his arms, it pulled his hands higher up his back until his shoulders felt like they might dislocate.

Think. Think like Dad would think. There's always a solution. Always a way out.

But there wasn't. The rope was too tight, too well-planned. His expensive jeans were already soaked with sweat and stained with the filth from the cabin floor. Dust particles danced in the fading light from the broken windows, settling on his wet tank top.

The second hour was bargaining.

Behind the duct tape, Ray tried to make noise. Muffled grunts and groans that he hoped sounded like cooperation, like surrender. Maybe they were watching. Maybe they would come back if he seemed compliant enough.

I'll give them anything. Dad's account numbers. The safe combination. The names of his business partners.

But the silence stretched on, broken only by the sound of his own labored breathing through his nose. His jaw ached from being forced open by the tape. Saliva pooled in his mouth with nowhere to go.

The third hour, time began to blur.

His legs had gone numb from the unnatural position. When he tried to flex his toes, nothing happened. The rope had cut off circulation, and his feet felt like blocks of wood attached to his ankles. But his arms—God, his arms were on fire. The muscles in his shoulders screamed with each heartbeat, and his wrists were raw and bleeding under the rope.

How long has it been? Hours? Days?

The light from the windows was different now. Darker. Or maybe it was his vision going fuzzy. His white tank top clung to his chest, completely transparent with sweat. Every breath was an effort, made worse by the dust he'd inhaled from the filthy floor.

The fourth hour—or was it the fifth?—brought hallucinations.

Ray saw his father's face in the shadows cast by the broken window frames. Cold, calculating eyes that seemed to be weighing options. Is he worth the money? Is he worth the risk?

"Dad?" The word came out as a pathetic whimper behind the tape. "Dad, please..."

But the shadows shifted, and his father's face disappeared. Ray's vision blurred with tears he couldn't wipe away. His body was betraying him in ways he'd never imagined possible. The constant pain had rewired his nervous system—everything hurt, but in different ways now. Sharp nerve pain where the rope bit into his wrists. Deep, throbbing aches in his shoulders and back. The strange, terrifying numbness in his legs that made him wonder if he'd ever walk again.

What if they never come back? What if Dad doesn't pay? What if he thinks I'm not worth it?

The thought hit him like a physical blow. His father had never said he loved him. Never hugged him without occasion. Every interaction had been measured, conditional. Good grades earned approval. Athletic achievements earned dinner conversation. But love? Unconditional love?

Ray couldn't remember a single instance.

By the sixth hour, he was no longer Ray Renzo, Princeton student, heir to a fortune. He was just a collection of nerve endings firing pain signals to a brain that couldn't process them anymore. His expensive jeans were torn at the knees from his struggles against the rope. His tank top was filthy, stained with sweat and tears and the grime from the cabin floor.

The rope had tightened so much that his hands were purple and swollen. He could no longer feel his fingers. His shoulders had seized up completely, locked in a position that felt like his arms were being slowly torn from his body.

I'm going to die here. I'm going to die, and Dad will write it off as a business loss.

The hallucinations were constant now. He saw his mother—dead for ten years—sitting in the corner of the cabin, shaking her head in disappointment. He saw his Princeton classmates laughing at something he couldn't hear. He saw servants from the estate walking past him like he was invisible.

And through it all, the pain kept building. Not just physical anymore, but something deeper. The pain of realizing that his entire life had been built on a foundation of conditional love. That he was, at his core, alone.

The rope creaked as his body convulsed with silent sobs. Even crying had become torture—the salt from his tears stung his eyes, and he couldn't wipe them away. His nose was completely blocked now, making breathing a conscious effort that required all his concentration.

How much am I worth? How much is Dad willing to pay?

The questions circled in his mind like vultures. A million? Ten million? Or would his father see this as an opportunity to start fresh, maybe adopt a more suitable heir who wouldn't embarrass him at business dinners?

Ray's vision darkened at the edges. He wasn't sure if he was passing out or if night was falling. Time had become meaningless. He existed only in the space between heartbeats, in the gap between breaths, in the eternal moment of waiting for rescue that might never come.

The rope bit deeper into his wrists, slick now with blood and sweat. His body had stopped shivering, stopped fighting. He was breaking down at a molecular level, dissolving into component parts that no longer recognized each other.

I'm not Ray anymore. I'm just... this. This thing tied up on the floor, waiting to die.

The thought should have terrified him. Instead, it brought a strange kind of peace. If he wasn't Ray Renzo anymore, then maybe it didn't matter whether his father loved him or not.

Maybe nothing mattered anymore.

Chapter 3

Vincent Renzo's phone buzzed at 3:47 AM Swiss time. He ignored it. The second buzz came thirty seconds later, then a third. Only then did he reach across the silk sheets of his Geneva hotel suite and glance at the screen.

Unknown number. A photo message.

The image loaded slowly, pixel by pixel, revealing his son bound and gagged on a filthy floor. Ray's white tank top was soaked with sweat and grime, his expensive jeans torn at the knees. His face was streaked with tears and dirt, eyes wide with terror above the silver duct tape wrapped around his head.

Vincent's expression didn't change. He'd seen worse things in his forty-three years of business. But this was his son.

The text that followed was brief: $50 million. Cash. 48 hours. No police or the boy dies.

Vincent set the phone down and walked to the window. Geneva sparkled below him, lights reflecting off Lake Geneva like scattered diamonds. Fifty million. It was a significant sum, even for him. Not crippling, but enough to require liquidating assets, calling in favors, making himself vulnerable to competitors who would smell blood in the water.

He picked up the phone again, studying the photo. Ray looked... broken. Pathetic. The privileged boy who'd never faced real hardship, now reduced to this trembling, terrified creature on a cabin floor.

Is this what nineteen years of my investment has produced? This weak thing that can't even handle a few hours of discomfort?

Vincent's own father had made him work construction summers, had thrown him out of the house at eighteen with nothing but the clothes on his back. "Learn to be a man," the old bastard had said. And Vincent had learned. He'd built an empire from nothing, crushed competitors, survived hostile takeovers and federal investigations.

But Ray... Ray drove Porsches and played tennis and studied literature at Princeton. Ray had never been hungry, never been desperate, never been tested.

Maybe this was the test Ray needed.

Vincent's phone rang. The kidnappers, probably expecting panic, demanding immediate compliance. He let it go to voicemail.

The second photo arrived an hour later. Ray's condition had deteriorated. His face was slack with exhaustion, his skin pale and clammy. The ropes had tightened visibly, cutting into his wrists until they were raw and bleeding. A puddle of sweat had formed beneath him on the dirty floor.

Tick tock, daddy. Time's running out.

Vincent poured himself a scotch. Fifty million dollars. What else could that buy? A new production facility in Malaysia. Majority stake in the shipping company he'd been eyeing. Three senators' worth of campaign contributions.

Or one scared boy who'd never proven himself worth anything.

His phone buzzed again. Another photo. Ray's eyes were closed now, his body limp. Was he unconscious? Dead? Vincent couldn't tell. The image was too grainy, too dark.

24 hours left. No extensions. No negotiation. Pay or bury your son.

Vincent's finger hovered over the phone. One call would set the ransom payment in motion. His team in the Cayman Islands could have the money ready within twelve hours. His security people could handle the logistics. Ray could be home by Sunday, probably in therapy for the rest of his life, but alive.

But what kind of life would that be? Vincent had seen kidnapping victims before. They never fully recovered. They jumped at shadows, developed dependencies, became liabilities. Ray was already weak; this would break him completely.

Fifty million for a broken son. Or fifty million for a fresh start.

The third photo arrived at dawn. Ray's lips were blue behind the tape, his breathing shallow. His tank top was completely soaked through, transparent with sweat and clinging to his emaciated frame. The ropes had cut so deep into his wrists that his hands were purple and swollen.

Vincent stared at the image for a long time. His son looked like a corpse already. Maybe that's what he was—a corpse that just hadn't stopped breathing yet.

But then he noticed something in Ray's eyes. Even through the terror and exhaustion, there was something new. A hardness that hadn't been there before. The look of someone who'd seen the bottom of the world and was still fighting to survive.

Maybe there's something salvageable after all.

Vincent picked up his phone and dialed his banker in the Caymans.

"Marcus, it's Vincent. I need fifty million in cash. Small bills. Untraceable."

"Sir, that's a significant—"

"Forty-eight hours. Make it happen."

Vincent hung up and looked at the photo one more time. Ray's face was barely recognizable, swollen and streaked with tears and dirt. But his eyes... his eyes were still open. Still fighting.

Don't disappoint me, boy. Don't make me regret this investment.

The fourth photo arrived six hours later. Ray had somehow managed to shift position, rolling onto his back. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and fresh tears had cut tracks through the grime on his face. But he was moving. He was alive.

And for the first time in nineteen years, Vincent Renzo felt something that might have been pride.

Hold on, son. Daddy's coming to collect his investment.

The wire transfer went through at 11:23 PM Geneva time. Fifty million dollars, disappearing into accounts that would vanish within hours. The most expensive gamble of Vincent's life.

But as he looked at the final photo—Ray's eyes still open, still defiant despite everything—Vincent thought it might be worth it.

His son was finally learning what it meant to be a Renzo.

Chapter 4

They came back once. Just once.

Ray heard the door creak open through the fog of his delirium. Footsteps on the rotting floorboards. The flash of a camera. His body didn't even flinch anymore—every nerve ending had been burned out by hours of constant agony.

"Still breathing," one of them said. "Barely."

The camera flashed again. Ray's eyes rolled toward the light, but he couldn't focus. His vision was fractured, like looking through broken glass. Everything existed in fragments—a boot, a hand, the glint of metal.

"Look at me, rich boy."

Ray tried to lift his head, but his neck muscles had given up. His white tank top was no longer white—it was brown with dirt and sweat and something else he didn't want to think about. His jeans were torn at both knees now, the fabric shredded from his convulsions against the rope.

The camera flashed a third time, and they were gone.

The door slammed shut, and Ray was alone again. But this time, something inside him broke completely.

They're not coming back. Dad's not paying. I'm going to die here and no one will ever know what happened to me.

The thought should have brought despair, but Ray was beyond despair now. He was beyond everything. His mind had fractured into pieces that no longer fit together, like a puzzle someone had thrown against a wall.

He couldn't feel his hands anymore. The rope had cut off circulation so completely that his arms felt like they ended at his elbows. But somehow, impossibly, his shoulders still screamed with pain. How could something that didn't exist hurt so much?

My arms are gone. They cut my arms off and left me here to bleed out.

The hallucination felt real. More real than the cabin, more real than the rope, more real than his own heartbeat. He could see his severed limbs lying in the corner, pale and lifeless. The kidnappers had taken them as proof of life. No—proof of death.

I'm already dead. I died hours ago. This is just my brain firing random signals as it shuts down.

Ray's breathing became erratic, shallow gasps that barely moved his chest. The duct tape felt like it was melting into his skin, becoming part of him. He was transforming into something else, something that wasn't human anymore.

His legs had been gone for hours now. He was sure of it. The rope had cut them off at the knees, and now he was just a torso on the floor, bleeding out in slow motion. The numbness had spread up his thighs, into his stomach, creeping toward his heart.

Soon there won't be anything left.

But then the pain would surge back, reminding him that his body was still horribly, impossibly intact. His shoulders would spasm, his wrists would burn, his jaw would cramp against the tape. The cycle of numbness and agony had become his entire existence.

Time had lost all meaning. He might have been here for days, weeks, years. Maybe his whole life had been leading to this moment—this endless present of suffering. Princeton, the estate, his father's cold approval—all of it had been a dream. This was reality. This cabin, this rope, this pain.

I was never Ray Renzo. I was always this thing on the floor.

The thought came with a strange clarity that cut through the delirium. He could remember inventing the story of his privileged life to make the pain bearable. The mansion, the cars, the servants—all fantasies he'd created to escape the truth of what he was.

A thing. A broken thing that existed only to suffer.

His father's face appeared in the shadows again, but this time it was different. Not cold or calculating, but genuinely confused.

"Who are you?" dream-Vincent asked. "I don't have a son. I've never seen you before in my life."

Of course. How could I have forgotten? I'm nobody. I'm nothing.

The hallucination felt like a revelation. Ray tried to remember ever being hugged, ever being loved, ever being acknowledged as anything more than a burden. But the memories wouldn't come. Maybe they'd never existed.

His breathing grew more labored. Each breath was a conscious decision, a deliberate act of will. But why? Why keep breathing when there was nothing left to breathe for?

Let go. Just let go.

But his body wouldn't obey. Some primitive part of his brain stem kept forcing his lungs to work, kept his heart beating, kept the blood flowing through his mangled limbs. He was trapped in a dying body that refused to die.

The rope had become part of him now. It had grown into his skin, merged with his bones. He was more rope than flesh, more knot than man. When they finally found his body—if they ever did—they'd have to cut him out of the binding like a tumor.

I'm not Ray. I'm not human. I'm just a thing that used to be human.

The distinction felt important somehow. Things didn't need to be loved. Things didn't need to be saved. Things were just... things.

His vision darkened at the edges, and Ray welcomed it. The darkness was kind. It didn't hurt. It didn't demand anything from him. It just was.

But even as consciousness faded, his body kept betraying him. His chest kept rising and falling. His heart kept pumping. The broken thing that used to be Ray Renzo kept existing, kept suffering, kept waiting for an end that never came.

I am the rope. I am the pain. I am the thing on the floor.

I am nothing else.

I have never been anything else.

The cabin grew darker, or maybe his eyes were finally failing. But somewhere in the distance, Ray thought he heard something new.

Engines. Multiple engines, coming fast.

But that was impossible. No one was coming. No one even knew he existed.

The thing on the floor didn't move. Couldn't move. Could only wait to see if this was another hallucination, or if the darkness was finally complete.

Chapter 5

The engines were real.

Ray's broken mind couldn't process it at first. Sound had become meaningless, just another hallucination in the endless parade of torments. But these engines were different. Closer. More urgent.

ATV doors slammed. Voices shouted orders. Footsteps pounded up the rotting porch steps.

The cabin door exploded inward.

"Jesus Christ." The voice was unfamiliar, professional. "Get the medics. Now."

Ray's eyes rolled toward the sound, but he couldn't focus. His vision was fractured, everything existing in fragments. A tactical vest. A radio crackling. The glint of a knife.

"Son, can you hear me?" The man was kneeling beside him now, his voice gentle but urgent. "We're going to get you out of here."

Son. The word felt foreign, like a language Ray had forgotten how to speak. He tried to respond, but only managed a weak whimper behind the tape.

"Easy now. Don't try to move."

The knife sliced through the duct tape first, peeling it away from his skin with careful precision. Ray's jaw dropped open, saliva spilling onto the floor. He tried to speak, but his throat produced only a rasping croak.

"Dad?" The word came out as barely a whisper.

"He's coming, son. He's coming."

The rope came next. Each cut was agony—as the bindings released, blood rushed back into his limbs like liquid fire. Ray screamed, a sound that barely qualified as human.

"I know it hurts. I know. But we've got you now."

They lifted him onto a stretcher, securing it to the back of a medical ATV. Ray's world became a blur of movement and voices. The cabin fell away behind him, that place of horror becoming just another shadow in the trees. But the pain followed him—his body was a map of suffering, every nerve ending reporting damage.

The ride to the helicopter landing zone was a haze of medical equipment and urgent voices over the ATV's engine noise. Ray drifted in and out of consciousness, his mind struggling to accept that the ordeal was over. Or was it? Maybe this was just another hallucination, another cruel trick his broken psyche was playing.

I'm still on the floor. I'm still the thing made of rope and pain.

But the IV needle in his arm felt real. The warm blanket around his shoulders felt real. The paramedic's hand on his forehead felt real.

"You're safe now," the medic said. "You're going home."

Home. Another word that felt foreign.

The hospital was a blur of tests and procedures. X-rays showed the damage to his shoulders, his wrists, his ankles. The doctors spoke in hushed tones about nerve damage, about circulation, about psychological trauma. Ray heard it all through a fog of medication and exhaustion.

And then his father was there.

Vincent Renzo stood in the doorway of the hospital room, his usually perfect appearance disheveled. His hair was uncombed, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes red-rimmed with fatigue. He looked like he'd aged ten years in the past few days.

"Ray." His father's voice cracked on the name.

Ray stared at him, this man who had been so distant, so cold, so calculating. The man who had weighed his worth in dollars and cents before deciding to pay the ransom.

"Dad, I—"

"Don't." Vincent moved to the bedside, his movements uncertain. "Don't try to talk yet."

They sat in silence for a long moment. Ray could see something in his father's eyes he'd never seen before—fear. Not the controlled, calculating fear of a businessman facing a hostile takeover, but something deeper. Something primal.

"I'm sorry," Vincent said finally. "I'm sorry it took so long. I'm sorry you had to go through that alone."

Ray's throat was too raw to speak, but his eyes filled with tears. Not the desperate tears of his captivity, but something else. Something that might have been relief.

"When I saw those photos..." Vincent's voice broke. "When I saw what they were doing to you, I realized... I realized I'd never told you how much you mean to me."

The words hung in the air between them. Ray had waited nineteen years to hear something like this, had given up hope that his father was capable of such emotion.

"I know I've been distant," Vincent continued. "I know I've been cold. I thought... I thought I was making you strong. Teaching you to be independent. But I was wrong. I was so wrong."

Vincent reached out and took Ray's bandaged hand, careful not to disturb the IV lines.

"You are my son. My only son. And you are worth more than any amount of money. More than any business deal. More than anything in this world."

Ray's vision blurred with tears. The broken thing on the cabin floor was gone. In its place was something new—still fragile, still healing, but real. Human.

"I love you, Ray. I should have said it every day. I should have shown you. But I'm telling you now, and I'll tell you every day for the rest of my life."

For the first time in days, Ray smiled. It hurt his cracked lips, but it was real.

"I love you too, Dad."

Vincent squeezed his hand gently, and Ray felt something he'd never experienced before—the unconditional love of a father who had almost lost everything that mattered.

The ordeal was over. The healing could begin.