shouldn't have panicked. But when your best friend disappears, panic is basically mandatory.
Ethan hadn't come to school today. His mom confirmed he hadn't returned home last night. My stomach twisted into knots. I had to find him.
I tore through the campus like a storm—library, cafeteria, gym—everywhere he might have been. Nothing. Not even a scrap of evidence that he had shown up that morning.
"Where are you, idiot?" I muttered, slamming my locker shut.
My heart thudded as I pulled out my phone and called his mom.
"Hello?" Her voice trembled faintly.
"Mrs. Bennett? It's Clara."
"Clara… what's wrong?"
"Has… is Ethan at home last now?"
There was a long, heavy pause. Then, "No… he isn't at home, he did not come back last night and I have been calling his number but it is not reachable, have you seen him."
I ended the call, My stomach sank into an abyss I didn't even know existed. He wasn't at school. He hadn't come home.Where the hell is Ethan, what's he up to this time without involving me?
I remembered the warehouse near the edge of town—Ethan sometimes went there when he wanted to think. Dangerous, abandoned, creaking metal and shadows that seemed alive—but desperate times called for desperate measures.
I stuffed my bag with a flashlight, my phone, and the small vial Ethan had shown me months ago: a mild sedative, just enough to calm a panicked friend—or knock them out if they didn't expect it.
The warehouse loomed as I arrived, rusty doors yawning like a mouth. Twilight stretched the shadows, making the place look like a nightmare.
And there he was—or at least, I thought I saw him.
Chestnut hair sticking out from an oversized hoodie, baggy trousers, tall frame. I didn't look at his face. Of course it was Ethan.
ETHAN
My pulse thundered in my ears. And then I remembered Ethan's "safety trick": a canvas bag over the head, a few drops of the sedative beneath the nose.
I swallowed hard. My hands shaking, I lifted the bag, slipped it over his head, and pressed the vial beneath his nose. He stiffened for a moment, then sagged into unconsciousness.
Perfect.
He was huge—broad shoulders, solid muscle—but now he was pliable. I carefully dragged him into my car, whispering apologies the entire time.
"I'm so sorry, Ethan. I… I just… I didn't know what else to do."
The drive to our usual forest clearing—a secluded spot we had claimed as ours—was tense and silent, broken only by his soft murmurs under the bag.
"I… you don't—"
I waved my hand nervously. "Shh! Ethan, it's okay. Just sleep! Almost there."
"I… not—"
"Sleep! Please! You'll be fine!"
I babbled, keeping him distracted, desperate to calm myself as much as him.
By the time we reached the clearing, I carefully dragged him out, crouched beside him, and whispered, "Sorry… I panicked. I didn't know what else to do. Just rest."
He shifted slightly beneath the bag, a low growl escaping, as if trying to communicate something. He didn't know me. He didn't know my name. Yet here I was, treating him like my best friend.
"I… you don't—"
"I know, I know!" I cut him off, fumbling with the bag nervously. "I'm so sorry! Please, just—just rest!"
And in that moment, I still didn't know he wasn't Ethan. Not even close.
I had kidnapped a stranger—a very large, very strong, very dangerous stranger.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, a tiny voice whispered: You are so screwed.