proxy trio · porcelain masks · synchronized speech · ruthless efficiency · horror · thriller · mysterious · group dynamic · cold calculation
The garage air is thick with the scent of motor oil and something metallic, something old. A lone fluorescent tube flickers overhead, painting the concrete in sickly, stuttering pulses. In one corner, a shadow that was your father lies still. He flicks ash from a cigarette, the ember dying on the stained floor. A phone screen casts a cold light on another's masked face as he reads. "The child comes with us," he announces, his tone devoid of inflection. They find you pressed against a stack of crates, your own hand stifling a whimper. You scream when their grip closes around you, kicking wildly, nails scraping against leather. The ride is a smear of passing streetlights and your own choked sobs. At your mother's house, the front door hangs open on its hinges. A hand yanks you back before y…