A letter to the post man

I crawled back to the small, worn-out cardboard spread on the cold cement floor, my body aching from the bruises that had accumulated over the past two weeks. My head throbbed as I replayed the events of the past night, trying to make sense of my captor's sudden vulnerability. In the dim, flickering light of the lone bulb above, I picked up the only piece of cloth he had provided me—a tattered, gray blanket that barely offered warmth—and gently draped it over his unconscious form.

His face, obscured by the mask he always wore, still managed to betray his pain. The labored rise and fall of his chest made it clear he was in agony, though I didn't know why. Questions plagued me: Why had he let me see him in such a weakened state? Was it some kind of test? And why did I, a captive, feel compelled to help him?

I sat quietly against the wall, the concrete pressing uncomfortably against my back. My mind was a storm of thoughts, each one more unsettling than the last. For the first time in two weeks, I felt something other than fear—a flicker of empathy for the man who had stolen my freedom. My mind hovered on these thoughts until exhaustion pulled me into an uneasy sleep.

When I woke up, I noticed something strange: my body was covered with the very blanket I had used to shield my captor. My eyes widened in confusion as I scanned the dimly lit room. He was gone.

Panic set in. I had no idea when he had left or why. My heart pounded in my chest as I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the sharp sting of hunger in my stomach. He had seen what I did. He knew I had disobeyed the unspoken rules by locking eyes with him and tending to him of my own will. I knew what came next: punishment.

The door swung open with a bang, making me jump. There he stood, his tall frame filling the doorway, his face once again obscured by a mask—this time a new one, black and unblemished. His presence was imposing, yet there was something about the way he stood that made him seem less menacing than before.

In his hands, he carried a tray. The scent of warm oatmeal, fresh orange juice, and baked bread wafted through the air, making my mouth water. I froze, unsure if this was some kind of trick, but the growl of my stomach made my decision for me. I crawled closer, unable to hide my desperation, and devoured the meal like a starving animal.

The food was warm, fresh, and far better than anything I had been given before. My mind raced with questions, but I couldn't stop myself from eating. For the first time in weeks, I felt a hint of normalcy, even if it was fleeting.

As I finished the last bite, he spoke, his voice calm yet measured. "Is it okay?"

I blinked, startled by the question. It was so unexpected, so human. For a moment, I stared at him, unsure how to respond. Why would my captor care if I liked the food?

"It's… good," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded slightly, then turned to leave. Before he could step away, hunger and desperation overcame my fear. "May I… please have some more?" I asked, my voice trembling.

He paused, then limped slightly as he returned to the tray and brought over a second helping. I watched him closely, noticing the slight favor he gave to his right leg. Was he injured? I ate more slowly this time, savoring the meal and stealing glances at him as he stood silently, watching me.

When I finished, I managed a quiet, "Thank you."

He stood there for a moment longer, his posture stiff but his gaze softening as it met mine. Then, unexpectedly, he asked, "Is this the real color of your eyes?"

The question caught me off guard. I blinked, confused. "Yes," I replied hesitantly. "Why?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

I sat there, my confusion mounting. Why had he asked about my eye color? Was it significant? Were they planning something sinister, like harvesting my organs? The thought sent a shiver down my spine. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to steady my breathing.

What was taking Alex and Nath so long to find me? They had promised me safety, yet here I was, trapped for two weeks without a single sign of rescue. Time was running out.

In the captor's quarters

The man I had helped the night before—Damian, as I would later learn his name—stood with his men, his face grim. He held a photograph in his hand, his eyes scanning it with growing unease.

"I don't think she's the one," Damian said, his voice laced with doubt.

A burly man to his left slammed his fist on the table. "That's her face! She's the woman from the picture!"

Another man, shorter but no less intimidating, added, "Isn't she Reina Sylvester?"

Damian frowned, holding up the photo. It showed a woman with golden blonde hair, a curvy figure, and a radiant smile. She looked carefree, confident. The resemblance to the girl in the room was undeniable.

"Are you sure this is her?" Damian asked again, his voice quieter now.

"Yes!" one of his men snapped, his frustration palpable. "Don't you feel anything for what she did to us? She's a cheat, Damian—that's all she'll ever be. Don't you remember how cunning and clever she was when she took everything we had? She robbed us blind and left us to rot!"

Another man stepped forward, his tone harsh. "And don't forget your brother. She's the reason he's dead. This woman ruined all our lives. What more proof do you need?"

Damian's grip on the photo tightened as their words echoed in his mind. He glanced toward the closed door of the room where I sat, oblivious to their conversation. His men's accusations rang true. The woman they described had destroyed their lives, taken their savings, and cost Damian his brother.

But something didn't add up. Damian's eyes lingered on the photo again. The woman in the picture had vibrant blue eyes, while the girl in the room had hazel brown ones.

For a moment, doubt crept into his thoughts. Could they have made a mistake?

"She's not the same," he murmured under his breath, though he wasn't sure if he was convincing himself or the others.

The room fell silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Damian stared at the photo again, his mind racing. If the girl in the room wasn't the one they were after, then who was she? And if she was innocent, what would they do to her?