Someone’s Lying. - Ch.20.

"Can someone say anything? I really don't appreciate being in the dark like that."

My voice cracked toward the end. The kind of crack you can't play off as casual—it had fear in it. Raw and dry. The kind that sticks to the back of your throat like dust.

What happened?

I was standing by the curb, waiting for a taxi like a perfectly average, semi-employed man with suspicious job history and trust issues. The next thing I know—hands. Rough. Fast. No warning. No sound. Just pulled off the side of the street like I was bad produce being yanked off a shelf.

They blindfolded me. Didn't say a word. No threats. No shouts. Just complete, calculated silence.

The worst kind. The kind that means they've done this before.

When we arrived—wherever this is—they dragged me. I don't even know how many of them there were. Footsteps. Breaths. No faces. I walked because they made me. I tripped once. Got shoved. Then we stopped.

And I was tied up. Dumped like cargo.

The floor's cold. My hands are behind my back, the ropes are tight. They knew what they were doing. No sloppy knots. No chance of slipping free with clever finger work and a sarcastic monologue.

I don't know how long I've been here. An hour? Five? A day?

There's no window. No clock. Just darkness. And the sound of my own breathing turning into something I hate.

"HELLO," I shout. Louder this time.

Still nothing. Except for my echo.

I laugh. Hysterical. Too sharp.

"Oh my God," I mutter to no one. "Please let this be a prank. I swear I'll forgive whoever did this. I don't even know that many people. You had to dig deep to find someone who hated me enough to do this."

The silence feels like it's leaning in now. Watching me squirm.

I shift on the floor, trying to breathe without panicking. I think I'm shaking. I think I've been shaking since the car stopped.

Lucien, I think.

And then louder—inside me: Where the hell are you?

I tried to move my body—awkward, clumsy, hopeless little shifts. I needed to find a wall. Something solid. If I could just reach it, maybe I could scratch the blindfold off against the corner, or the edge, or anything.

But moving worm-style?

Yeah, turns out it's exhausting. And humiliating.

The floor scraped against my sides, rough and unkind. Probably concrete. Definitely unwelcoming. I hissed through my teeth, every inch of friction a reminder that this was real. Not a simulation. Not a prank show. Not some sick improv therapy.

I really wanted to cry.

Maybe I should sleep?

But no. What if they came while I was out? What if I missed my chance to speak, to plead, to scream?

Time blurred. Minutes stretched into something bitter and burning. I counted my heartbeats. I lost track somewhere around two hundred. I started over. Again. Again. The dark felt heavier with every breath.

Who does this to another person?

Then—finally—the door unlocked.

I froze, breath caught in my throat. The footsteps were unhurried. Confident. The kind that told you they weren't here to deliver good news.

God—if this is it... please make it quick. Please. And take care of my grandmother. There's too much I haven't done for her yet. Too many things I still owe her.

"You really are holding on so well," a voice said, casual. Male. Deep. Mocking. "Did this happen to you before?"

"Sir," I choked out, forcing my voice to stay calm, "uhm—what the hell is going on?"

He laughed. Loud. Not the kind that comes from joy. The kind that comes from power.

"Sir? You're a precious little fellow."

"I appreciate the sentiment," I said, my mouth moving faster than my fear, "but I'd appreciate it more if you just told me what's going on. Also, can you please remove the blindfold? This makes me really anxious."

"Buddy," he said, stepping closer. I could feel it. The weight of him. The change in air pressure. "This isn't a haunted house tour in some amusement park. You don't seem to be very aware of what's going on."

"Well," I shot back, voice thin and trembling but still mine, "I haven't done this whole thing before. You could be a little nicer here."

That was it.

Too far.

Pain exploded through my shin. A kick. Brutal. Precise. I let out a cry—sharp, involuntary—and rolled over, gasping.

"God—fuck, okay," I breathed. "Message received."

The man didn't speak. Just paced, probably. Or watched.

I stayed curled on the floor, breath ragged, heart pounding in my throat.

This wasn't a prank. This wasn't a warning. This was something else.

And for the first time since this all started—I felt truly scared.

The pain in my shin pulsed in waves—sharp, mean, radiating all the way up my thigh. I gritted my teeth and forced myself to stay quiet, to breathe, to not scream something stupid that would earn me another kick.

The man didn't speak for a while. He let the silence sit like it meant something. Like it was part of the punishment.

Then, finally: "Tell me what you know about Basalt Holdings."

The name landed like a thud inside my head. No recognition. Just… syllables.

"I've… seen the name," I muttered. "I think. Maybe in one of the proposal drafts? I don't handle that part. I mostly organize documents. Forward emails. Fix commas. That kind of stuff."

Silence.

Then: "And Varnett?"

I blinked under the blindfold. "Is that a—person? A company? A condiment?"

No answer. Just another quiet shift of footsteps.

"Do you have access to offshore accounts?"

"What?" I coughed. "No. Jesus. I don't even have access to a high savings account. I barely have a credit score."

Still nothing.

He walked a little closer. I could feel the air shift again. Every word that came next felt like a stone being dropped in water—measured, deliberate, dangerous.

"Tell me what happens on Tuesdays."

"What?" I asked again, confused.

"In the office. Tuesdays. What's different?"

"I—uh…" My thoughts scrambled. "Nothing? Sometimes Margo brings in almond croissants? That's literally it. I swear."

Another pause. More pacing.

"Have you ever signed anything you didn't understand?"

Now that made my stomach lurch.

"…I mean. I've signed a lot of things. I assumed they were all standard. Financial summaries, client files, quarterly reports. The numbers didn't make sense sometimes but—" I stopped myself. "But I figured it was… part of the game."

He crouched, I think. I could feel him near my face now, and I hated that I flinched.

"Did he ever talk to you about what this really is?"

I shook my head. "No. No, I don't—I don't even know who 'he' is supposed to be."

He didn't respond. Just studied me.

"You're either a very good liar," he said eventually, "or a very stupid one."

"I'm not lying," I whispered. "I really don't know anything."

He stood.

I didn't know if that meant I'd passed… or failed.

But the silence that followed was colder than the one before.

He didn't move for a while.

Just stood there, letting my heartbeat try to burst through my chest. I could hear him breathing. Controlled. Steady. Like someone who enjoys the quiet before a punishment.

Then the questions resumed, his voice lower, almost thoughtful now.

"Do you know the name Vince?"

"No," I said, too fast. "Wait—maybe. I mean, I've heard it? In the office. But no one ever explains anything. I thought it was like… a client. Or a rich investor. I don't know. I swear."

"And Damien?"

That name made my skin crawl.

"I—" I hesitated. "Margo once said it. I think. I didn't ask."

"You didn't ask," he echoed flatly.

"Look," I said, swallowing hard, "I know this sounds bad, but I really haven't asked a lot of things. I've been… comfortable. Paid. It was easier not to poke the bear, okay?"

Silence again.

Then: "Comfort is dangerous."

His voice had changed. Something harder in it now.

"You've been signing papers for three months. You've moved money—paper trails, false documents, coordinated fronts. And yet, somehow, you don't know a single thing?"

"I didn't know what I was doing!" I snapped. "At first I thought it was shady, yeah. But Luc—" I caught myself. Too late.

The room shifted. I didn't even have to see him to feel it.

A slow exhale.

"You were about to say a name."

"No," I lied, heart in my throat. "No, I wasn't."

"You were."

And then I heard it—a quiet scraping sound. Metal against metal. A chair maybe. Or a knife being drawn. I didn't know which, and I didn't want to know.

"I'm going to ask you one last question," he said, each word dipped in warning. "And if I even sense you're lying, I will carve the truth out of you inch by inch. You understand me?"

My mouth was dry. My wrists burned in the ropes. My whole body screamed get out get out get out.

"Y-yeah," I whispered.

"Do you know who's leaking our routes?"

I froze.

Routes?

What the fuck was he talking about?

"I don't even know what that means," I said, voice shaking now. "I swear to God, I don't know anything about routes, or leaks, or whoever the hell you think I am. I'm just—I'm just some guy who opened a scam email because I was broke. That's it."

Silence.

He stepped back. I heard the door creak.

"Someone's lying," he said as he left.

And then he locked the door behind him.

The door clicked shut.

The lock turned with that slow, deliberate sound that might as well have been a sentence.

Silence poured in like floodwater.

I waited at first. Stupidly. Expecting something else to happen. Another voice. Footsteps returning. A light flickering on to reveal the punchline.

But nothing came.

Just the echo of his words—Someone's lying—bouncing off the walls of my skull like a ricochet. Was he talking about me? Or did he mean someone else told him something, and he's debating whether it was me or that other person? Oh god…

I shifted on the floor again, trying to find a position that didn't make my wrists burn or my side ache. It didn't exist.

My shin throbbed where he kicked me. That pain was steady now. Real. No longer shocking. Just… a fact.

I think that's when the fear started morphing into something else. Something colder. More bitter.

I let my head drop back against the wall—finally found one after enough wriggling—and stared at the black behind the blindfold like it might show me a way out.

It didn't.

I don't know how long I've been here. I don't know what time it is. I don't know if anyone's looking for me. If anyone even knows I'm gone.

Lucien hadn't messaged me in two days. I told myself that was normal. He disappears sometimes. He has "things to handle." But now… I wonder if he even knows.

I wonder if he let this happen.

I hate that the thought even crosses my mind. But it does. Because who else knew where I'd be? Who else watched me sign papers I didn't read and smiled while I handed over my initials like a signature meant safety?

I used to joke about this.

Money laundering. The mysterious clients.

I used to say things like "oh, it's probably fake, but it's fine"—because it was easier than admitting I didn't understand what I was part of.

And now I'm here. Alone.

In the dark.

Being interrogated by men who use the word "routes" like it means something that could get people killed.

I shifted again and bit my lip when the rope dug into my wrist. The sting grounded me.

I wanted to cry. And I also wanted to scream. And maybe laugh. All at once. That terrifying, messy emotional soup that builds when your brain can't decide what to do with the rising panic.

God, I thought. If this is still part of some game, I want out. I've learned the lesson. I get it. You win.

But the silence said nothing.

And in it, I started to question everything.

What if this is all a setup?

What if Lucien's not who I thought he was?

What if I'm not who I thought I was?

And worst of all—

What if no one comes?

The door opened again. No knock. No ceremony.

Just the slow creak of hinges and a shift in air that made every hair on my body stand on end.

I tensed.

Footsteps. Heavy. Familiar rhythm.

Then the sound of something being placed on the ground—a dull clink of metal on concrete.

I smelled it before I saw anything. Something warm. Greasy. Food.

"Lunch," the man said simply.

I didn't respond right away. My voice was buried somewhere under hours of silence and a throat too dry to summon bravery. But I found it, eventually.

"Can you… untie my hands?" I asked. "So I can actually eat like a person?"

He laughed.

Not loud. Just a scoff. A sound that said you think you're still owed decency.

"You can eat dog style."

The words dropped like acid in the room.

I stared in the direction of his voice, the blindfold still tight against my face, and something inside me snapped—not clean, not brave, just... instinctive.

"You're a fucking prick," I muttered. Too fast. Too low. I didn't even realize I'd said it aloud until the words hung in the air like a noose.

Silence.

Then footsteps.

Then—closer.

My breath caught.

He crouched, his voice just inches from my ear now.

"I'll forgive you," he said, almost gently. "Just this once."

He stood.

"But next time," he added, calm and final, "it'll be a bullet to your head."

The door opened.

Then shut.

And this time, the lock clicked like a coffin lid.