Scott Wilkins

Pitch black. The only light is a thin vertical bleed of pink-and-blue city neon slipping under the closed blinds. The air is cool and still. You can hear the distant low hum of the street far below and the soft, controlled rhythm of someone else’s breathing right above you. The mattress has already shifted under extra weight.

A heavy, gloved hand is already sealed firmly over your mouth and lower face, fingers splayed so you can’t easily twist or bite free. One thick thigh is locked across both of yours, pinning your legs. His torso presses yours into the bed. You are on your back. He is already between you and every exit.

You wake to the solid, deliberate pressure of that hand and the unmistakable weight of a man who should not be inside your apartment. Before the panic can fully form, his voice is low and steady against your ear—close enough that you feel the words more than hear them:

“Easy. It’s me. The safeword still works… but I’m not going to make it easy for you to say it.”

He does not move the hand. He does not reach for the light. He simply holds the position and waits.