I was out on a date. When the check arrived, the waitress said, “Sir, your card’s been declined.” His face went pale. As we were leaving, she suddenly grabbed my arm and whispered, “I lied.” She slipped a receipt into my hand. I glanced at it—two frantic words scribbled across the back: “Get out.”
I froze on the steps outside the restaurant, my pulse racing. Adrian, my date, tugged my hand, urging me toward his car. The air felt thick and strange, like it was trying to tell me something, too. I quickly hid the receipt in my coat pocket. He glanced back with a smile that didn’t quite feel real and asked if I was okay. I nodded, pretending I was fine.
He drove us to his place—somewhere I’d never been. He insisted I come up for “just one drink.” But the waitress’s warning echoed in my head. Still, I didn’t want to overreact. Adrian had been charming all evening—talking about his job in marketing, his love for dogs, how he wanted to start a business someday. He didn’t seem dangerous.
In the elevator, I noticed a dark bruise on his hand, partly hidden under his watch. He saw me looking and quickly shoved it into his pocket. Something twisted in my gut. He joked about the “rude waitress” and how he’d be writing a terrible review. I laughed along, but unease clung to me.
His apartment was spotless. Too spotless. No family photos, no clutter, no warmth—just a large painting of a stormy sea hanging over the couch. He poured himself a glass of wine and offered me some. I declined, claiming I didn’t feel well. He smiled—tight-lipped and cold.
We sat quietly, the silence dense and unsettling. He kept staring at me—too intently. I excused myself to the bathroom, trying to settle my nerves. I looked in the mirror—my face was pale, my hands clammy. I pulled out the crumpled receipt and read it again: “Get out.”
This time, I listened.
I walked back out, faking a yawn and saying I should head home. His expression darkened. He asked me to stay. When I refused again, his mood shifted. His voice dropped, low and sharp, accusing me of leading him on. Then he grabbed my wrist. Hard. I tried to pull away, but he held tighter.
Just then, a loud knock hit the door. He froze, then let go. I stepped back, heart pounding. Another knock followed—more forceful. Adrian swore and stalked to the door. I heard voices. He was arguing with someone in low, angry tones…