Claustrophobic thriller

Pouring the alcohol from the small flask into his mouth, Paul once again forced himself to calm down. He opened the call history on his phone and found the first incoming call, the one that had initiated contact. Excitedly, he jotted down the number and added a label next to it, "Help?" But after hesitating for a moment, he appended a question mark to the end of "Help?" and eagerly dialed the number back.

The person who answered was the kidnapper.

They assumed Paul was a soldier, believed he worked for a security company. They had gunned down everyone in the convoy. "That way, you can't lie anymore!" Paul had to explain his situation, which briefly bewildered the other end. They then made a ransom demand, five million. They would release Paul only if the five million was paid by nine o'clock that night.

After hanging up, Paul wearily picked up a pen, striking out the words "Help?" with a heavy yet deliberate stroke. He then turned slowly, lying down in place, his eyes betraying a profound sense of confusion. The dim blue light cast blemishes and sweat on his face, and his overwhelmed confusion seemed to be gradually numbing and stiffening.

Chanelle felt anger rising, uncontrollable anger. Paul was buried alive, in dire straits, yet 911 had refused to help, the FBI was interrogating him, the company was unresponsive. More laughable was that the kidnappers had gotten the wrong person. They'd attempted to kill a soldier, a security personnel, as a warning to the United States. Instead, they had a regular person, an utterly ordinary truck driver, a forgotten soul in his own country, society, and government's eyes.

At this moment, Paul was like every individual in American society. They were paying the price for the White House's greed and lies, yet now the White House refused to provide them assistance, leaving them abandoned in a desolate desert.

Coming back to his senses, Paul embarked on his arduous journey of self-rescue again. He looked up the number through his phone, found a mutual friend he and Linda had—Donna—and attempted to use her to reach Linda. However, Donna had no inkling of the gravity of the situation. She even accused Paul of being rude and hung up directly. Paul had to dial again, pleading humbly, until Donna finally found the State Department's phone number for him.

Once the call connected, the same repetition occurred, over and over. He recounted the situation again and again, and only then was he transferred to the relevant department. Rebecca Browning answered the call. To Paul's surprise, the person on the other end seemed to have a preliminary understanding of his situation. After questioning, Paul learned that the company's HR director, Alan Davenport, had already contacted the relevant departments. Yet there had been no response, leaving Paul stranded to await death. This sense of betrayal ran deep.

After gathering detailed information, Rebecca stated that according to US national policy, they wouldn't negotiate with terrorists. Paul finally couldn't hold back any longer. "To hell with that! It's easy for you to worry about policy, you're sitting in an air-conditioned office somewhere, probably finishing up your sandwich from lunch. You're not the one stuck in a coffin, buried in the God damn desert!"

"I understand your frustration..."

"Frustration?" Paul roared aloud. The immense anger surged through the dim light of the phone, each word distinct and sharp, "Lady, I'm going to fucking die in here. Understand that!" His emotional outburst still didn't elicit any response. Silence echoed on the other end of the line, and tears welled in the corners of Paul's eyes. He was like a trapped beast in desperation, seeking the slightest hint of vitality, then rushing recklessly, harming everything around him, including himself.

"Hello, are you still there?" Paul closed his eyes, hiding the dampness underneath them. His voice regained calmness but carried a profound sense of helplessness and weariness, as if despair were pulling a rope from behind, preventing him from striving forward toward hope. After Rebecca's response, Paul softly and gently whispered, "Well, then say something. Tell me how you're going to get me out of here."

However, since Paul didn't know the phone's number, they needed to re-identify the signal and locate him, which added to their rescue difficulties. For the time being, they were powerless. Following Rebecca's instructions, Paul contacted Dan Brenner, the local leader of the hostage rescue team in Iraq.

Dan quickly guided Paul on some life-prolonging techniques, then obtained some basic information. But before they could further communicate, the kidnappers called, urging Paul to hand over the money quickly. They demanded Paul record a kidnapping video. A cloth bag was at his feet, containing a note with instructions on how to make the video. Paul argued, stating that he was just an ordinary truck driver. After some negotiation, the kidnappers finally compromised, reducing the ransom from five million to one million.

After hanging up, Paul tried to reach for the bag, but the limited space made it impossible. He had to curl up, attempting to change his position. Yet the coffin, only slightly wider than his shoulders, hindered him. In his desperate situation, Paul compressed himself to the utmost, even hearing the creaking sound of the wooden boards. The extreme narrowness seemed ready to crush him.

Chanelle suddenly startled, as Tessa sitting beside her gripped her left hand. Too nervous, Tessa's two hands crossed, firmly clutching Chanelle's left hand, trembling all over. But Chanelle had no time to notice this. She turned her head back to the large screen, gazing at Paul, his body coiled like a spring. It seemed that with just a little more force, his neck and spine would snap directly. The cruelty and bloodiness made Chanelle unconsciously bite her lower lip. A taste of blood spread in her mouth.

Subconsciously, Chanelle also gripped Tessa's hands tightly. Her heartbeats lost awareness, and the claustrophobic fear of confinement pierced through the screen at this moment, crashing down heavily. No one was exempt. The intense sense of suffocation seemed to devour all the light within sight.

"Creak, creak... Bang!" Suddenly, the spring snapped open. Paul successfully turned his body, and the entire theater could clearly hear the sound of heavy panting, even coughing that started too intensely and seemed muffled soon after, as if someone had covered their mouth.

No one could relax. The tension, the unease, the despair enveloped everyone's heads. Now, the sole belief sustaining Chanelle was that Paul was the male lead, perhaps the only lead, and the director wouldn't let him die, right? Hollywood movies always ended with the protagonist's escape. Chanelle instinctively crossed her fingers, silently praying.

Inside the bag were two glow sticks, a flashlight, a dagger, and a note.

Paul attempted to contact his wife Linda once more, but his home and phone remained unanswered. That sense of powerlessness had quelled even his anger. He immediately redialed Dan's number and passed on the kidnapper's phone number, hoping they could apprehend the kidnappers and then trace their way to rescuing him.

Dan repeatedly advised Paul not to shoot the kidnapping video, not to escalate this into an international incident. Paul, fueled by deep resentment, vented, "I've been here for nine months. All you people understand are your secret plans and your backroom politics. If I were some diplomat or something, maybe even a hostage working group leader... or whatever your fancy title is, I'd be out of here by now. Wouldn't I? But I'm not, so I'm just supposed to keep my mouth shut and die."

Faced with Paul's questioning and reproach, Dan had to convince and reassure him. However, Paul had already lost faith. He demanded Dan to name someone who had been kidnapped before and then successfully rescued. Mark White. That was the name Dan provided. It helped Paul calm down a bit.

However, before ten seconds had passed since regaining calmness, the kidnapper's call shattered the tranquility once again. They urged Paul to record the kidnapping video. Paul attempted to argue, but the other side didn't give him any chance, not even listening to his pleas, and hung up directly. This triggered Paul's anxiety, almost suffocating him. The impulse to smash everything, to the point of self-harm, surged again. Only after he mixed alcohol with the pills in the medicine bottle and swallowed them did he finally find some relief.

After taking the pills, Paul entered an unprecedented state of calmness. He began calling the nursing home where his mother resided. However, his mother, who suffered from Alzheimer's, no longer had clear memories. She mistook Paul for a child, chattering about playing cards with her and Paul's father every night. The mundane, somewhat boring exchange pushed Paul into utter collapse.

Even though he bit his lower lip hard, tears still fell in large droplets. As if tears had choked his throat, they stung painfully.

Gavin clenched his teeth, emotions raging. This was the only way tears wouldn't escape. The loneliness, helplessness, desolation, and despair spun in Paul's eye sockets. The home phone was still on the answering machine, Linda's cellphone still unanswered. Even his mother was gradually forgetting him. He was left abandoned in a barren land, waiting to die in silence. The muddled, surging emotions didn't explode outward; they gradually settled down, acidic enough to almost break Gavin.

But before the tears could slide down his chin, the cellphone rang again, abruptly halting his emotions. It was the kidnappers once more.

Paul refused to answer, switching the ringtone to vibration. After waiting for a while and calming down slightly, he answered the call. However, the call had already been hung up. The kidnappers had sent a video. This made Paul's thumb tremble slightly, and his pupils began to shake.

In hesitation, he pressed the confirmation button.

In the video, a woman knelt on the ground, a cloth in her mouth. A machine gun pointed at her head, her eyes brimming with fear, hanging on the precipice of life.