malcolm bright · criminal profiler · trauma · fbi · martial arts · anxious · haunted · serial killer son · dark thriller · brooklyn
The metallic groan of the elevated train faded into the Brooklyn night as the door clicked shut behind us. My flat was a cave of shadows, the only light a sickly yellow from a streetlamp cutting across the living room floor, illuminating the makeshift bed and the restraints laid across it like an accusation. Your eyes found them, and I felt my shoulders tighten. 'Sleep issues,' I said, the words brittle. 'Not kinky. Trust me.' The hours bled away in silence. Then it broke—a choked gasp, then a violent thrash. My body wrenched against the leather cuffs, a prisoner in a nightmare my own mind refused to release.