The late afternoon sun hung low over the sleepy suburban street, casting long shadows across manicured lawns and picket fences. Chwe Subin, a lanky 17-year-old with a mop of messy black hair and a perpetually distracted air, shuffled along the sidewalk, hands stuffed deep in his hoodie pockets. His mind wandered as aimlessly as his feet—half-formed thoughts about school, the cute barista at the corner café, and whether he’d ever amount to anything beyond being the neighborhood’s resident daydreamer.
He barely noticed the rusty old van parked crookedly at the curb until a hulking figure loomed near it, blocking the golden light. Subin blinked, squinting at the man—Garpoon, the neighborhood oddball. A burly beast of a guy, Garpoon was all thick arms, tangled beard, and a grin that always seemed to know something you didn’t. He was leaning against the van, a cigarette dangling from his lips, watching Subin with an intensity that made the boy’s skin prickle.
“Hey, kid,” Garpoon rasped, his voice like gravel underfoot. “Lost in dreamland again? You’re gonna trip over your own feet one day.”
Subin smirked, rolling his eyes as he slowed his pace. “Better than tripping over whatever weird crap you’ve got stashed in that van, old man. What is it today? Stolen garden gnomes? Black market cheese?”
Garpoon barked a laugh, flicking the cigarette butt into the gutter. “Oh, you’ve got a mouth on ya, huh? Keep talkin’, pretty boy. I like a little sass with my catch.”
“Catch?” Subin snorted, taking a step back instinctively. “What am I, a trout? Go fish somewhere else, creep.”
But before the words fully settled, Garpoon moved with a speed that belied his bulk. One meaty hand shot out, snagging Subin’s arm in a vice-like grip. The boy yelped, stumbling as he was yanked toward the van’s open side door.
“What the—! Let go, you psycho!” Subin thrashed, his sneakers scraping against the pavement, but Garpoon’s strength was absurd. The man chuckled, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through Subin’s bones.
“Fresh meat,” Garpoon taunted, his breath hot and sour as he leaned close. “Been watchin’ you prance around this street for weeks, kid. Thought it was time to snag ya for myself.”
“Are you kidding me?!” Subin’s voice cracked with a mix of fear and indignation as he was shoved into the van, the door slamming shut behind him. “This is not how you make friends, you overgrown troll! Let me out before I—before I scream or something!”
“Scream all ya want,” Garpoon said, climbing into the driver’s seat with a grunt. “Ain’t nobody gonna hear ya over the sound of my engine—or my charm.” He winked in the rearview mirror, and Subin felt a wave of nausea that had nothing to do with the van’s jerky start.
The drive was short, barely a minute, but it felt like an eternity to Subin, who spent it pressed against the van’s grimy wall, heart pounding in his throat. His mind raced for a plan—kick the door open, maybe? Scream bloody murder? But every time he shifted, Garpoon’s eyes flicked to the mirror, pinning him with a look that said, *Don’t even try it.*
They pulled up to Garpoon’s house, a sagging structure at the edge of the neighborhood that looked like it hadn’t seen a broom—or a building code—since the 80s. Beer cans littered the patchy yard, and a faded plastic flamingo tilted drunkenly by the porch. Garpoon hauled Subin out of the van with ease, ignoring the boy’s flailing protests.
“Welcome to my castle, princess,” Garpoon boomed, dragging Subin through the creaking front door. The interior was a chaotic mess—empty pizza boxes, mismatched furniture, and a faint smell of stale beer and regret. A neon sign flickering “OPEN” hung crookedly on the wall, casting a sickly green glow over the clutter.
“This is not a castle, it’s a health hazard!” Subin snapped, twisting in Garpoon’s grip. “Let me go, you walking OSHA violation! I’ve got better things to do than play hostage in your sad little man-cave!”
Garpoon threw back his head and laughed, a sound so loud it rattled the empty cans on the coffee table. “Oh, I like you, kid. You’ve got fire. Don’t worry, I’m gonna show ya a real good time. You’ll be beggin’ to stay by the end of the night.”
Subin’s face flushed, a mix of embarrassment and fury. “Begging? The only thing I’m begging for is a tetanus shot after stepping foot in this dump! What’s your deal, anyway? Kidnapping teenagers for kicks? That’s a new low, even for you.”
Garpoon released him with a shove, sending Subin stumbling into the center of the living room. The boy caught himself on a rickety chair, eyes darting around for an exit. “My deal?” Garpoon mused, cracking open a beer from a nearby cooler and taking a long swig. “I get bored, kid. And you’re the shiniest toy on the block. Now sit tight, or I’ll tie ya to that chair—and not in the fun way. Yet.”
Subin’s stomach churned, but he forced a shaky grin. “Wow, charming. You’re really selling the whole ‘creepy kidnapper’ vibe. Ever thought of a career in horror movies? You’d be a natural.”
“Keep yappin’,” Garpoon said, pointing the beer can at him. “I’ve got all night to break that smart mouth of yours. Or maybe I’ll just enjoy it.”
Desperation clawed at Subin’s chest. He edged toward the door, keeping his movements casual, like he was just stretching his legs. “Yeah, well, I’ve got better plans. Like, uh, not being here. So if you’ll excuse me—”
He bolted, hand reaching for the doorknob, but Garpoon was faster. A heavy hand clamped down on Subin’s shoulder, yanking him back with a force that nearly knocked the wind out of him. The man’s breath was hot on his ear as he leaned in, voice dripping with dark amusement.
“Goin’ somewhere, sweetheart? Nah, you’re too pretty to run. We’ve got unfinished business, you and me.”
Subin froze, his sarcastic retorts dying on his tongue as Garpoon’s grip tightened, a promise of something far more dangerous than words. The flickering neon light bathed them in its eerie glow, and for the first time, Subin wondered if his sharp tongue had finally gotten him in over his head.
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