Chapter 1: Captive

A man lies seated on the cold ground, his bare feet bearing angry marks, while the thick black chain clinging to his ankle contrasts with his delicate skin.

His back leans forward, his shoulders pressed back. As the messy black hair, drips a reddish liquid.

She is still breathing, at least it seems so.

The white room seems to emerge from a nightmare, a haunting vision that takes the breath away. The walls, painted a pale white, are marked by scratches and unexplained stains that break the initial purity of the color.

The high ceiling is lost in the shadows, adding an aura of oppression to the place.

To the man's right, a worn single bed stands as the only refuge in this macabre place. The sheets, once pure, are now stained and torn, showing signs of a sinister past.

To its left, a rusty and dilapidated toilet adds a touch of desolation to the atmosphere. Its presence, rather than a comfort, hints at a cruel reality, a constant reminder of the desperate situation in which the captive finds himself.

Every corner is impregnated with a tangible fear that reminds those who are there of the impossibility of escape.

The silence is sublime, the echo of a man's footsteps is heard in the dark corridor, echoing loudly, but with a steady sound. Interesting, they go in discordance with the hesitant thoughts of the subject.

The man lying on the floor, without his usual elegance and upright posture, is unconscious. The previous night's blows have left strong after-effects. The shirt covering his body is soaked with blood and dirt. The dress pants, which reveal his long, slender legs, show the marks of the dragging to his captivity.

Octavio Montes, the renowned biochemist, would not have imagined going through this situation, in these three decades of existence.

The footsteps sound louder, the doorknob turns, a deep sigh escapes from the thick lips of the stranger.

She stops dead in her tracks at the sight of him, Professor O looking pitiful.

Held up like a piece of trash, he has been stripped of his exquisite intelligence and superiority.

The subject approaches slowly, he has an order to carry out. At this moment, the man is but a chip in the stratagem of another individual.

Octavian's figure is devoured by the shadow of the standing man. The man crouches down and watches him closely. He gingerly takes the locks of jet-smooth hair, analyzes each shattered pore, turns sideways scanning the surroundings.

At this moment, Professor O has a black blindfold covering his brown eyes. His round-rimmed glasses, which give him an intellectual air, are also nowhere to be seen.

The white skin is covered with bruises and the thin lips retain some color. Gently, a thumb pokes at the corner of his lips. Through the black leather glove, the man senses a slight temperature. He leans in, closing the distance, and feels the warmth in the whisper of Octavian's breath.

With the tip of his nose, he follows the lines of the professor's face; the man's jaw tenses at the proximity.

The room is submerged in a dense mixture of dirt and dampness, a combination that weighs heavy in the air, oppressive and unpleasant. Despite this pervasive nuance, Octavio's signature woody fragrance lingers amidst the ferrous scent and dust.

With its earthy notes and hints of sandalwood, it awakens a natural freshness, subtle masculinity and a touch of mystery that intertwine with the very essence of the professor. This addictive scent lingers, marking its presence in an unmistakable way.

Small beads of sweat pearl the man's forehead, tracing a sinuous path until they slide down his jawline. An ambiguous tingling, settles deep in his chest, unleashing uncertain sensations that throb uneasily within him.

An avalanche of stimuli overwhelms his senses, ramming his heart with disconcerting intensity. Confusion swirls in his mind, like a whirlwind of intertwined thoughts struggling to find clarity amidst this sensory avalanche.

 "Shit", the man scowls, his brow furrowed and his gaze heavy with regret.

He resolutely removes the black gloves, freeing his wheat-colored hands from the leather trim with a firm movement.

The black pupils, filled with resolve, his gaze flickers to the corner of the room where the surveillance camera sits.

Calculating, defiant eyes rest on it, as if conveying a wordless message.

But as she turns to Octavio, she purses her lips as her face expresses a hidden longing.

After a few minutes, the man, with firm but gentle hands, holds the professor's face. He caresses the skin with his fingertips, sliding down the neck.

He looks for a reaction, but it doesn't come.

He sighs inwardly.

He brushes his lips, helps himself with his thumb to open the unconscious man's mouth. He delineates with the tip of his tongue the edge of his lower lip, cautiously inserts himself, feels the small warmth that still keeps Professor O inside him.

The flavors intermingle, generate a confusing sensation. The man is still uncomfortable inside, but his instincts begin to surface. The softness and wetness exalts his chest, a reddish color invades his cheeks.

After a few minutes he withdraws, translucent threads still connecting them. He leans forward, bringing both foreheads together. He takes his time, as if trying to tell her something.

But, he has no more time. He stands up with determination, his tense muscles reflecting the urgency of the situation. Determined, he carefully gathers the fainted man in his arms. His posture is firm but delicate, holding him gently, as if he intends to avoid causing him any further harm.

His arms wrap firmly around the unconscious man, heading towards the bed, while the long chain accompanies his steps.

The sight of the stained and torn sheets generates a deep discomfort in her, while her mind fills with questions and her insides churn.

She watches Octavio, watches the bed. A feeling of displeasure takes hold of him as he contemplates it.

"Damn it!", he grunts, as he slowly props the man up.

Lying on old, repulsive sheets, Professor O's day one begins.