Stories of Tie Up Games

Shadows of the past

After almost ten years in prison, Tony Maze, a career criminal, escapes during a prisoner transfer and returns to New York City with a plan for revenge – Erica Sinclair, whose testimony got him convicted, must die.
This is the fifth Erica Sinclair adventure. Find out if this is the end for her…

Erica jolts awake, sitting straight up in bed, her heart pounding in her chest as though she’d been running. She’s drenched in cold sweat, the soft silk of her dark red kimono clinging to her naked skin, her breathing ragged and uneven. Blinking against the darkness, she tries to shake off the remnants of a nightmare - something unfamiliar and unsettling to her, a feeling she can’t easily place.
Her hands fumble for the light switch. The warm glow of the bedside lamp floods the room, casting soft shadows on the walls. The duvet has slid off the bed, leaving her feeling vulnerable and exposed. She pulls her knees up to her chest, hugging them for a moment, trying to calm her racing mind.
At the foot of the bed, her two kittens, Spot and Tiger, are curled up together, a ball of soft fur and warmth. Spot stirs, lazily opening one eye as if checking on her, then nuzzles back into his brother’s side and falls back asleep. The sight brings a momentary calm to Erica, but her pulse is still loud in her ears.
She glances at her watch - a quick flick of the wrist to check the time. It’s almost 3 AM.
Erica reaches for her phone on the nightstand. Something feels off, a tug in her gut that she can't ignore. She swipes through the various push notifications until her eyes settle on one. A message from an unknown number.
She opens it. Her stomach drops.
“We’re not finished.”
A chill runs down her spine. Her fingers tighten around the phone.
“What is this?” she whispers to herself, her voice barely audible in the silent room. Her mind races. Could it be a prank? A random message that’s not even meant for her? But something gnaws at her, a feeling that this could be something much darker - something real.
She sets the phone back down, unease creeping over her. The message sticks in her mind like a thorn, impossible to ignore.
Pulling the duvet up from the polished hardwood floor, she wraps it around herself, cocooning in its warmth, hoping for some comfort. She lays down again, staring up at the ceiling, but the words “We’re not finished” seem to echo in her head.
Sleep eludes her, the short message replaying over and over in her mind. The hours crawl by, and just when she feels she might drift off, her alarm goes off at 5 AM. Erica exhales, feeling a strange sense of relief that the night is over.
The day has begun, but something about that message lingers like a shadow, promising that this is far from over.




Erica finds a strange comfort in the simplicity of her early morning routine. She rinses the kitten dishes, refills them with fresh food and water, and watches as Spot and Tiger circle her legs with excitement. They seem so carefree, completely unaware of the tension creeping up in their mom. As she slips into her running gear - tights, top, and shoes - she feels the comforting pull of habit. The familiar tightness of her outfit, the press of her phone and keys in the zippered pocket of her running top, all serve as a buffer against the unsettling thoughts bubbling in her mind.
But as she zips up her pocket and shuts the door behind her, the strange, anonymous message from last night gnaws at her again. She shakes it off, refusing to let a random text – maybe not even directed at her - control her mood. As the elevator hums to street level, she does a few stretches to loosen up, and by the time she steps out onto West 72nd Street, she finds her pace. Running through the cool morning air always brings clarity. The world blurs past as her feet pound against the pavement, her usual 5-mile loop through Central Park offering solace.

The run clears her mind - until she returns. As she unlocks her apartment door, her phone buzzes in the tight pocket of her top. Erica pulls it out and feels a lump form in her throat as she reads the message:

“Nice running.”

Her heart skips a beat. Did someone see her? Was she being watched? She racks her brain, replaying the run - had anyone been following her? She didn’t notice anything or anyone out of the ordinary. But the message lingers, turning her stomach in knots. Locking the door behind her, she feels an uneasy vulnerability that’s foreign to her. Normally, she wouldn’t think twice about stripping off her running gear and stepping into the shower. But now, her fingers hesitate at the hem of her top.

She sets the phone down on the coffee table and forces herself to walk into the bathroom. The sound of water filling the shower eases her tension slightly. She lathers on the lavender-scented bodywash, letting the calming fragrance envelope her as the warm water runs down her skin, washing away the sweat but not quite the chill of being watched. She steps out, wraps her toned frame in an oversized towel, and blow-dries her hair, trying to shake off the lingering unease.

Stepping back into the living room, Erica sees Spot and Tiger diving into their food, little bundles of fur with no worries in the world. They make her smile, if only for a moment. She heads into the kitchen, turning on the coffee pad machine, her body craving warmth and comfort. She adds two Sweet’n Low and a splash of almond milk to the brew and takes the first sip, but her stomach is still too knotted to think about breakfast.
Flicking on the TV, she tries to distract herself, flipping through news channels, letting the white noise of talking heads fill the silence. But then, one headline catches her eye, and her blood runs cold.
A news anchor’s voice cuts through her thoughts: "Tony Maze, a convicted felon serving a life sentence, was freed during a prison transfer just two days ago..."
Erica freezes, her coffee mug trembling in her hands.

Tony Maze.

The name hits her like a punch to the gut. Almost a decade ago, Erica had testified against him in court, her words instrumental in putting him behind bars. She hadn’t thought about him in years, convinced he was locked away for good. But now, the memory floods back - the sentencing, the look in his eyes, dark and filled with hate. As the judge sentenced him to life, he had stared directly at Erica, his lips curling into a silent promise: “I will kill you, Sinclair.”

She almost drops the coffee mug.
The anonymous message, the feeling of being watched, it all makes sense now. Tony Maze is out there. And he’s coming for her.

The Entry Paragraphs alone are worth the Read. You create Tension from the Start. The creepy atmosphere. No doubt you will take us on a wild ride!

Dear @Caesar73 This time Erica is up against someone who spent years to nurture his hate for her.

Jenny_S wrote: 6 months ago Dear @Caesar73 This time Erica is up against someone who spent years to nurture his hate for her.

Revenge is a dish served best cold - I wrote a three Part Story with that Title

Erica rolls her eyes with a small smirk as Andrea groggily answers the phone after what feels like an eternity of buzzing. Her voice is thick with sleep. "Do you know what time it is?" Andrea mutters, barely audible.
Erica’s reply is immediate and serious. “I need your help, Andrea. Someone’s threatening me - sending me anonymous messages.
There’s a beat of silence on the other end. The grogginess disappears from Andrea’s voice. "Wait, what? That’s not funny, Erica. What do you need me to do?"

“I need you to trace them if you can.” Erica says, pacing her living room, her nerves still on edge. “I’m hoping it’s some prank, but I don’t think it is.”
“Okay, sure thing.” Andrea replies, her tech-savvy brain already switching gears. “Bring Cannoli.” she adds casually, as if they were talking about something far less serious than cyberstalking and veiled threats.
Erica laughs despite herself. Leave it to Andrea to lighten the mood. “You’ve got it.” she promises.

With the call done, Erica moves swiftly, feeling like every second counts. She pours a fresh scoop of food into the kittens’ bowl, glancing at Spot and Tiger as they bounce around her feet. "You two stay out of trouble." she murmurs softly, stroking their soft fur. They look up at her with innocent eyes, oblivious to the storm brewing around their mommy. The sight of them calms her nerves just enough.
Moving through her morning routine with efficient precision, but quicker than usual, Erica pulls her hair into a sleek high ponytail and applies a touch of makeup. The mirror reflects her calm exterior, though her mind races underneath. A light blue blouse, fitted to her athletic figure, a charcoal skirt, and her matching jacket give her the polished, put-together appearance she’s known for. As she slides on her black shoes, she catches a glimpse of her Rolex.

Standing by her dresser, Erica turns the watch over briefly to see the engraved word her father had placed there years ago: “Stand for something or fall for anything” before clasping it around her wrist.
She exhales slowly. This is her moment to stand – this time to stand for herself, for her safety, for her peace of mind. She won’t be intimidated by Tony Maze or whoever was behind these messages. She’s been through worse, and she’s never backed down.
With renewed resolve, Erica grabs her keys and phone, double-checking the apartment door as she heads out. Today, the stakes are personal, and she won’t rest until she finds out who’s behind it all. And Andrea, with her tech wizardry and bottomless appetite, is the first step in getting some answers.
But before she steps out, she takes one last look at her kittens. A determined look settles over her face. "This ends today."



As Erica drives through the early morning streets, her eyes flick back and forth between the road and the rearview mirrors. She can’t shake the creeping feeling that someone might be following her. Her black Volvo glides through the city, but her heart is heavy with suspicion, the adrenaline of her earlier discovery still pulsing through her veins. Every car she passes or that pulls up behind her seems like a threat. She wonders if she’s just being paranoid, but the message and Tony Maze’s looming shadow give her every reason to be on edge.
When she pulls into the small parking lot of the Italian bakery, she scans the street before stepping out. As she waits for her order - a dozen mixed Cannoli for Andrea - she feels a prickling sensation at the back of her neck, like unseen eyes are fixed on her. It’s irrational, she tells herself, but fear grips her all the same. She’s never been one to get rattled easily, but today is different. Maze is out there, and his promise echoes in her mind: “I will kill you, Sinclair.”
She clutches the pastry box tightly and hurries back to her car. Locking the doors the second she’s inside, she takes a breath, her fingers trembling slightly as she puts the car in drive and heads to Andrea’s lab.
By the time she reaches Andrea’s place - a brick fortress with a heavy entrance - she’s exhausted, not from the drive but from the constant state of hypervigilance. As Andrea opens the door, the familiar sight of her friend’s cluttered lab and her small figure brings Erica the first real sense of relief she’s felt all morning. She lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding and slips inside.
Andrea, always practical and direct, immediately snatches the box of Cannoli from Erica's hands. “I needed this.” she says between bites, listening as Erica explains the situation, her tone growing more serious by the second.
At first, Andrea's skeptical. “Sounds like a stupid prank.” she mumbles through a mouthful of pastry, wiping a crumb from her glasses. But as Erica talks about Tony Maze - the threat from years ago brought back to life - Andrea’s expression darkens. She puts down the pastry box, wipes her hands clean, and heads to her workstation.
"Alright, let's see what I can dig up." Andrea says, plugging Erica’s phone into her computer. Her fingers fly across the keyboard, the rapid tapping filling the silence in the room.
Minutes tick by, and Erica watches her friend work with the same laser focus that makes Andrea one of the best in her field. But when Andrea frowns and pushes her thick glasses higher on her nose, Erica knows the news isn’t good.
“Yep, just as I thought.” Andrea says, still staring at the screen. “Prepaid burner. Can’t trace it to a specific person, of course. These things are designed for situations like this. Criminals love 'em. That’s why there’s talk of outlawing them…” She trails off, clicking through more screens. Her frown deepens. “I’ve tried every trick I know. The best I can get is a tower ping in Manhattan.”
Erica closes her eyes, releasing a slow breath. She had hoped for more - a lead, a clue, something that would help her feel less exposed.
“Whoever this is,” Andrea continues, “they know what they’re doing. They’re covering their tracks.”
Erica rubs her forehead. "I was afraid of that. Alright… I’ll talk to the DA’s office. Maybe Vickers can help.”
Andrea lays a tiny hand on Erica’s shoulder. “You can sleep here, Ricky. Bring your kittens. I’ve got space. I don’t like the idea of you being alone right now.”
Erica smiles faintly at the offer but shakes her head. As much as she appreciates Andrea’s gesture, dragging her into this mess feels wrong. If Maze really wants her, he’ll find her no matter where she hides. And Erica has never been one to back down. Hiding isn’t an option.
“Thanks, Drea.” she says, her voice soft but firm. “But I can’t bring you into this. I’ll think about it though.”
Andrea looks at her with concern, but nods. “You better be in touch. I mean it, Ricky. Be safe.”

Erica gives her friend a small, reassuring smile, though deep down, she isn’t sure how safe she can be. She steps out of Andrea’s place, the city’s noise and bustle greeting her like a harsh reminder of what lies ahead. The sun is climbing higher now, but the shadow of Tony Maze feels like it’s lurking at every corner.
As she walks to her car, a cold certainty settles in her chest: Maze is out there, and this time, it’s personal.




Erica storms into the Manhattan District Attorney's building on 1 Hogan Place, the weight of her fear driving her steps faster than usual. She doesn’t bother making an appointment, her urgency overriding any sense of protocol. Her heart is pounding in her chest, a mix of frustration, fear, and determination. She’s never been one to panic, but Tony Maze has rattled her in a way she didn’t think was possible.
At the security desk, the guard barely looks up as he signs her in, sliding her a visitor’s badge. Erica fumbles with it, her hands shaky, and almost drops it while trying to attach it to her lapel.
"God, I'm clumsy today..." she mutters under her breath, but deep down, she knows it's not clumsiness - it's fear. Fear that Tony Maze is closer than anyone realizes, and the sense of dread that’s been hanging over her since those text messages first appeared.
After a few tense minutes of waiting in a sterile conference room, the door swings open, and Assistant District Attorney Sophie van Rey strides in. Tall and commanding, Sophie’s mere presence makes the room feel smaller. She doesn’t waste time with pleasantries.
"Please be quick." she says, her tone brisk. "With the DA on vacation, I have a lot on my plate today."
Erica straightens in her seat, trying to focus as she pulls out her phone and shows Sophie the anonymous messages. Her voice is steady, but she can feel the frustration rising as she recounts the events, explaining how she testified against Tony Maze years ago, how he swore revenge, and now he’s on the loose after a botched prisoner transfer. It all sounds so clear in her head, but as she speaks, she senses Sophie’s growing detachment as if she's not even listening.
Sophie sits back, her gaze fixed on the phone for a few moments, then hands it back across the table with a dismissive gesture.
“Somebody’s pranking you.” Sophie says with cool certainty. “Maze would be an idiot to come back here. There’s a manhunt on for him, and by now, he’s likely on his way to South America. It’s not uncommon for people in your line of work to get rattled by things like this, but you’ve got to keep perspective.”
Erica’s hand tightens around her phone as she pockets it. The sharp sting of disbelief cuts through her. “Rattled?” It’s as if Sophie is brushing aside her very real fear. "You've got to take this seriously." Erica says, her voice firmer than she intends, realizing immediately she sounds hysterical like a desperate whistleblower. But she doesn’t care. Maze is out there, and every instinct is screaming at her that he’s coming for her.
Sophie stands, signaling the end of their meeting. “As long as nothing has happened, there’s nothing we can do. Let me know when you have something real. You know...proof.”
Erica stares at her, feeling a mixture of anger and helplessness. “Something real?” Isn’t her testimony, the messages, Maze’s escape, and the creeping sense of danger real enough? She fights back the urge to snap, knowing it won’t help.
“Thank you for your time, Sophie.” Erica says, her voice measured. She stands and offers a tight smile, but the pit in her stomach remains. “I’ll be in touch.”
As she leaves the office, the weight of the ADA’s dismissal presses down on her even harder than the fear she walked in with. Erica knows one thing for sure - she can’t rely on the system this time. If Maze is out there, she’s going to have to face him herself.

Again the first Paragraphs ..... They capture Erica´s Peril perfectly. And the two Kittens? They really add something to the Story, to what Erica is. Add an Element of Warmth and Comfort - the DA´s Office not so much. It comes down to the line: Sorry, but before anybody has been killed? We can do nothing. Erica must feel desperate, left alone.

Dear @Caesar73 You're correct. Erica realizes that "the system" won't help her this time. In a minute we will see how the story continues.

The moment Erica steps into the lobby of Sinclair & Associates, her assistant Claire senses it - something is off. Erica’s usual poised and confident stride has faltered ever so slightly. The words “Good morning” leave her lips, but lack their usual warmth, and the slight, nearly imperceptible slouch in her shoulders is the kind of thing only someone who’s worked closely with her would notice.
Claire hesitates just a moment after Erica disappears into her personal office before knocking gently on the door. "Ms. Sinclair?" she asks, slipping in quietly, her voice full of concern as she shuts the door softly behind her. “Are you okay?”
Erica looks up from her desk, trying to muster the strength to seem unbothered. Normally, she wouldn’t share personal issues with Claire, maintaining a professional distance, but something in Claire’s gentle tone tugs at her defenses. Recently, the two had bonded a bit over the kittens - Spot and Tiger - and she knows Claire is probably imagining something has gone wrong with them.
"I’m fine, Claire." Erica says, her tone a little too even. "I just didn’t sleep well last night." It’s not technically a lie, but it’s far from the whole truth. Anxiety twists in her gut, but she forces a smile, hoping to put Claire at ease.
"I’ll get you a cup of green tea, Ms. Sinclair." Claire says, making the decision for her. "And please, let me know if there’s anything else I can do."
As Claire leaves, Erica’s eyes linger on the closed door. “Claire...”, she thinks, her heart softening. “She’s such a sweet and caring soul. The world could use more of her kind.” But even as she tries to savor that thought, the memory crashes into her again - the image of Tony Maze staring her down as the judge sentenced him to life in prison. His lips had silently formed those chilling words: “I will kill you, Sinclair.”


The green tea sits on her desk, untouched. Erica tries to focus on the files stacked before her, the emails waiting for replies, but it all feels distant. The shadow of Tony Maze lingers too close, making it impossible to focus. No matter how many times she pushes the thoughts aside, they creep back in. He’s out there: planning, scheming, coming for her.

With a frustrated sigh, she pushes the file folder away and pulls her laptop closer, typing "Tony Maze" into the search engine along with other keywords: “prison break”, “escape”, “New York City”. Her fingers tap the keys nervously as she waits for results, but nothing provides the answer she needs - nothing tells her where he is, what he’s planning, or why the system isn’t taking this more seriously.

Suddenly, her phone pings with a new message. Automatically, she picks it up, her eyes scanning the screen. Her heart stops. It’s another anonymous text, this one far more personal. Not just words this time, but an image - a cartoonish picture of two kittens, each with a bright red ribbon tied snugly around their necks in a perfect bow. Beneath the image, the message reads: “Next time the ribbon won’t be so loose.”
For a moment, Erica can’t breathe. The sight of the kittens in the cartoon instantly makes her think of Spot and Tiger. Panic claws at her chest. “Is Maze in my apartment? Did he... touch them?” The fear, the fury, and the dread hit her all at once, and before she even knows what she’s doing, she’s grabbing her handbag, phone, and keys, rushing out the door. She doesn’t stop to tell Claire where she’s going, doesn’t even notice the concerned "Ms. Sinclair..." that drifts after her as the elevator doors close.


In her car, she barely remembers the drive. She weaves through traffic like someone possessed, her black Volvo flying past slower drivers. She takes corners too fast, her knuckles white against the steering wheel, her heart pounding against her ribs. Her mind is racing faster than her car, filled with visions of Maze in her apartment, his hands on her kittens, his malice seeping into her safe space.



When she finally reaches her apartment building, she doesn’t wait for the elevator, sprinting up the stairs two at a time. She crashes through her apartment door, slamming it behind her. "Spot! Tiger!" Her voice is shaky, desperate.
From the living room, two tiny figures emerge - Spot and Tiger, padding towards her with that innocent look only kittens can have, oblivious to the storm raging in their mother’s heart. Erica drops to her knees and scoops them into her arms, hugging them tightly against her chest, her face buried in their soft fur. Relief floods through her veins, but it’s fleeting. Because as she holds them, she sees it - the red ribbons tied perfectly around their necks. The same ribbons from the cartoon.
Her blood runs cold.

Maze was here. He touched them. He touched her home. Erica feels her stomach lurch, a deep sickness rising from the pit of her soul. He’s not just threatening her. He’s inside her world, invading her sanctuary. Every part of her screams in violation, her mind flashing with terror and anger.
The thought of him moving freely through her apartment, while she was gone, touching her beloved kittens - it freezes her blood, paralyzes her breath. She holds Spot and Tiger closer, her heart pounding in her chest like a war drum.
This is real. And Maze is sending a message.

Erica clutches the kittens, feeling their tiny hearts thudding against her chest, as she cautiously walks through her apartment. Her footsteps are slow and hesitant, her body tense with the fear that Maze could still be lurking, hidden in some corner, watching her every move. Every creak of the floorboards, every small sound makes her flinch. Her bedroom, her sanctuary, feels foreign, violated - no longer the safe haven it once was.
When she finally makes it back to her bed, the weight of the situation crushes her. She collapses onto the mattress, her sobs breaking free in ragged gasps. She hugs Spot and Tiger closer, her tears falling onto their soft fur. The kittens, sensing their mommy’s distress, nuzzle her cheeks and lick her trembling hands, their innocent affection a reminder of the fragility of the life she now has to protect.

For minutes, Erica sobs uncontrollably, her body shaking with a vulnerability she’s never allowed herself to feel. The tough exterior she always presents to the world is gone, stripped away by fear. She’s never felt so unsafe, so exposed, in her entire life.
Eventually, her breathing starts to even out. She sniffs, wipes at her tear-streaked face, and reaches for her phone with trembling fingers. She needs help. Not from the police or the DA’s office - they’ve already failed her. She needs someone who can actually protect her, someone who has never let her down.

She dials the number.

Erica´s fragile State of mind is well captured. That Mazes manages is to violate her private Space, touch the sweet little Kitties must hit her like a wrecking ball.

@Caesar73 You can see that Erica is devestated. Tomorrow we will see if there is any help she can summon. This is her most desperate hour.

Dear all,
thanks for staying with Erica in her fifth - and so far most challenging - adventure.
Please allow me some shameless self-promotion.
All of my stories are published here: https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
If you have missed Erica's previous adventures or if you feel you can't wait for me to put out the next part of this story, they are all out on Wattpad in full length.

This story will continue tonight. See you then, folks!

It rings twice before the familiar gruff voice answers. “Dance here.”
“John…” Erica's voice is barely a whisper, rough from the crying, but her desperation is clear. “Please...I need your help.”
John Dance doesn’t ask questions. He knows by the sound of her voice that something’s wrong - seriously wrong. “Where are you?”
“Home... Please, come…”
“I'm on my way.” Dance says firmly, his tone offering the kind of assurance Erica needs. “Stay put, Erica.”
The line goes dead, but the promise of his arrival steadies her. She sits on the edge of her bed, holding the kittens close, waiting. Every minute feels like an eternity, and she jumps at every small sound, terrified that Maze could return at any moment.
Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rings, followed by a firm knock and Dance’s unmistakable voice. “It’s me. John.”



Erica rushes to the door, still clutching the kittens in one arm as she peers through the peephole. Only when she sees John’s familiar face does she finally unlock the door and pull it open, relief washing over her. The kittens squirm in her arms, but she doesn’t put them down yet.
Before Dance can even ask, Erica pours out everything in a rush - the text messages, the cartoonish picture, the ribbons around her kittens’ necks, and Tony Maze’s escape. Her voice cracks with fear as she speaks, but Dance listens carefully, his face grim but calm.
“Show me.” he says.
She hands him her phone, and he studies the cartoon and the threatening messages. His eyes darken as he sees the ribbons she had removed from Spot and Tiger. Without a word, he leads her to the black leather couch and sits her down, pulling a soft blanket over her shaking frame. He kneels in front of her, his usual sarcastic edge replaced with a calm, soothing tone Erica has never heard from him before. “It’s alright now.” he says gently. “I’m here.”
Something about the way he says it - so steady, so certain - grounds her. Erica takes a deep breath, her panic slowly subsiding. She explains the situation again, this time more clearly, telling him what Andrea had found out and how the DA’s office had brushed her off. Dance listens, his expression hardening when she mentions Maze.
“I’ll take a look around.” Dance says quietly, standing up. “You stay here, okay?”
Erica nods, sinking deeper into the couch as she watches him move through her apartment, his every motion precise, methodical. He checks every corner, every nook and cranny, looking for any signs of surveillance equipment or other intrusions. After what feels like an eternity, he returns.
“I didn’t find anything obvious. No cameras, no bugs. But the fact that there are no signs of a break-in… that’s worrying.” He sits beside her, his eyes serious. “We need to get you better security.”
“I don’t understand how he got in.” Erica whispers, still holding the kittens close.
“Could’ve been a picked lock or a bypass. Whoever did this is a professional.” He pauses. “I’ll call a locksmith. We’ll get a new lock and a security bar installed.”
Erica nods again, barely able to focus on his words. Her mind keeps flashing back to the image of Maze, standing in that courtroom all those years ago, promising her that he’d come for her. Now, it feels like that promise is unfolding, piece by terrifying piece.

The locksmith arrives faster than she expected, installing a reinforced lock and a solid bar across her door. Erica watches in silence, her hands still shaking as she pets the kittens. Dance supervises the installation, pacing up and down the living room as he makes calls to some of his old contacts, trying to gather intel on Maze’s whereabouts. But even his contacts come up short - Maze has vanished without a trace, even to the intelligence community.
After the locksmith finishes, Dance turns to Erica. “Stay inside. Don’t leave unless it’s absolutely necessary. I’ll dig deeper into this. We’ll figure it out. You’re not alone in this.”
His words are comforting, but as Dance prepares to leave, Erica realizes that for the first time in her life, she truly feels helpless. Vulnerable. Exposed. She’s always been the one in control, the one standing strong. But now, with Maze lurking in the shadows, she’s never felt so small.
“I’ll be in touch.” Dance says as he heads for the door. “And if you need anything, call me.”
“I will.” Erica whispers, clutching the kittens tightly.
As the door closes behind him, Erica sinks back into the couch, feeling a hollow ache deep in her chest. Never before has she been this afraid, and she knows, with terrifying certainty, that this is only the beginning.





Two days have passed.
The silence has been unnerving, but Erica starts to feel a strange sense of security settling in. No new messages from Maze, no more threats, just the quiet company of Spot and Tiger. She spends the days curled up with them on the couch, ignoring the outside world. No morning runs, no work, only her and the kittens. John Dance calls occasionally, giving her updates. He admits he hasn’t found anything useful yet but assures her he's still digging. Despite the lack of leads, his voice is steady, a lifeline to cling to in the growing fog of uncertainty.
On the third afternoon, Erica makes herself a cup of green tea, trying to convince herself that everything might just return to normal. Maybe Maze is gone, or maybe he never intended to strike after all. As she sips her tea, her phone buzzes on the counter.
Another anonymous message.
Her heart races as she picks it up, praying it’s nothing serious. But when she reads the message, her stomach plummets: “Try calling your nerd friend.”

Frantically, Erica dials Andrea’s number. The phone rings, again and again, but no one picks up. “Come on, Drea… pick up…” she mutters, her voice trembling. She tries again, and again, but nothing.

Then, just as she’s about to leave a voicemail, her phone buzzes with another message.
This time, it’s an address - 56 Imlay Street, Red Hook, Brooklyn - and a chilling ultimatum:
“Be there. Come alone, or your nerd friend dies.”

Erica’s breath catches in her throat. Her body goes cold. Her hands shake as she stares at the message. They have Andrea. Her friend from way back when they were both 8 years old - the one person who’s always had her back. And now Maze has her.

For a split second, Erica feels frozen. Her mind races, searching for options, for a way out of this nightmare. But there’s only one choice. She has to go.
Without wasting another second, she rushes into her bedroom, throwing open the doors to her walk-in closet. She can’t show up in her grey sweatpants. No, she needs to be ready for whatever Maze has planned. Her hand trembles as she pulls out a pair of jeans, slipping them on, her fingers fumbling with the buttons. She grabs a flannel plaid shirt from the rack and throws it on over a simple black tank top. The soft, cool fabric brushes against her skin, but she barely feels it, her thoughts consumed by fear.
She laces up her favorite sneakers and as she tugs the laces tight, her heart pounds against her ribs. She has no idea what awaits her at the warehouse, but she knows it’s a trap. Still, she has no choice. Andrea’s life is on the line.

Erica slips into a worn, brown leather jacket, one she bought second-hand years ago. The weight of it on her shoulders gives her a small sense of comfort, but only for a fleeting moment. She checks the time on her Rolex - 3:12 PM. Each second ticking by feels like a countdown to disaster. She grabs her phone, wallet, and keys and shoves them into her pockets.

Spot and Tiger watch her from the doorway, their small heads tilting in curiosity. They follow her around the apartment, their tiny paws padding softly on the hardwood floors, oblivious to the chaos swirling around their mommy. Erica pauses for a moment, kneeling down to stroke their fur, burying her face in the softness.

“I’ll be back soon, I promise.” she whispers, her voice catching in her throat. But in the pit of her stomach, she knows there’s a chance she might not come back. Not this time.

She stands up, her hands shaking as she runs her fingers through her hair, before scrunchying it up in a ponytail. There’s no more time to waste. Without looking back, Erica rushes to the door, her heart pounding in her ears as she steps into the hallway. She locks the door behind her, the click of the deadbolt echoing ominously in the now quiet apartment.

The elevator ride down feels agonizingly slow, her mind racing with a million thoughts. What if this is a setup? What if Maze has more people waiting for her? What if she’s walking into certain death? But none of those thoughts matter. Maze has Andrea, and Erica must try to save her. There is no option.

When the elevator finally reaches the underground parking lot, she strides towards her black Volvo, her legs moving as if on autopilot. The moment she’s inside, she slams the door shut, her hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turn white. For a second, she just sits there, breathing hard, fighting the rising panic.

“You can do this. You have to do this.” she whispers to herself. She takes a deep breath, starts the engine, and pulls out of the parking garage, weaving through the city traffic like her life depends on it - because, in truth, it does.




Erica follows the Volvo’s GPS to 56 Imlay Street, Red Hook, Brooklyn. She’s never been to this part of the city, and as she gets closer, the surroundings grow more desolate. The map shows an area cluttered with old warehouses near the waterfront, and each passing minute feels like an eternity. Her grip tightens on the steering wheel once more as the weight of the situation presses down on her.

Andrea’s life is in danger, and the drive feels endless. Traffic crawls, every red light mocking her sense of urgency. Forty-three minutes later - though it feels like hours - Erica turns onto Bowne Street, parking next to a building materials supply yard. The dilapidated buildings on Imlay Street just around the corner loom like dark sentinels in the late afternoon sun, their shadows stretching across the deserted streets.

Her heart pounds in her chest as she grabs her phone from the passenger seat, double-checking the address. She reaches for the small flashlight in her glove compartment and pockets it - knowing it’ll be dark soon. The sun is already hanging low, casting a strange, ominous light over the old warehousing district.

Stepping out of the car, Erica moves cautiously. She sticks to the shadows, slipping between piles of debris and rusted machinery strewn across the empty lots. The air feels heavy here, almost oppressive, and each step feels more deliberate as she approaches Imlay Street. The large, faded numbers painted on the walls tell her she’s getting close.

There it is. No. 56.

It looks like all the other abandoned warehouses in the area - massive, grey, and lifeless. Its windows are either smashed or covered in grime, and junk cars are scattered around the perimeter like the carcasses of old, forgotten beasts. A thick chain and padlock secure the gate. For a moment, her mind races. What if she’s wrong? What if Andrea isn’t here?

But she can’t think that way. She doesn’t have time to second-guess. Erica’s breath is shallow as she scans the area for anyone who might be watching. The street is empty, eerily quiet, save for the distant hum of a construction site down the block.

She’s alone.
"Alright." she mutters under her breath, psyching herself up. "Time to play ball."

She grips the fence tightly and jumps, grabbing hold of the top with both hands. The chain link wobbles beneath her weight, but she’s agile. Helped up with a push from her legs, she heaves herself over the fence, landing with a muted thud on the other side. She crouches low, scanning her surroundings. Nothing but the slight sound of machinery and the soft rustle of the wind.

Erica wastes no time. She darts toward the massive building, its towering walls casting her in shadow. Her heart races faster with every step, her senses on high alert. Somewhere in here, Andrea is waiting. Captured. Trapped.

She circles the building, her pulse hammering louder in her ears with each second. Then she spots it - a small, rusted door tucked along the side of the warehouse. It’s unlocked. The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end as she grasps the handle and pulls. The door groans in protest, the hinges squealing like a warning as it swings open.

The inside is dark. Pitch black, almost.

Erica steps into the warehouse, the musty air thick and cold. Her breath is shallow, her movements slow, as if the very air is waiting for her to make a mistake. The silence is unnerving, broken only by the soft hum of distant traffic and the occasional creak of the building settling. The weight of the old, forgotten space presses down on her like an invisible hand.

Her phone vibrates in her pocket, and she nearly jumps out of her skin at the sudden buzz. The screen lights up, casting a faint glow on her face.

Another message. Anonymous, of course.

“Welcome to your final destination”

A chill runs down her spine. She wants to scream, to throw her phone against the wall, but she can’t lose control now. Not when Andrea’s life is hanging by a thread.

Been working away again, hence the late comment. This is possibly your best yet, You're showing Erica's vunerablity and her human fears beautifully. And now she has to confront the threat to somebody other than herself. Funnily enough, that might give her the steel and resolve she needs now.

Dear @LunaDog, I'm happy that you're always coming back to see what's up with Erica.
Risking her life to save that of her only real friend is her most desperate hour and she is aything but certain that she will come out of this alive.

Yes, we see Erica in one of the most desperate Situations she has ever been in. Will she rescue Andrea? This is a most gripping tale @Jenny_S

Dear @Caesar73 Is Andrea even in this warehouse? Maybe she's dead in her lab, murdered by Tony Maze? What kind of trap is Erica walking into?
Stay with this thread to find out.

Jenny_S wrote: 5 months ago Stay with this thread to find out.

Believe me, i FULLY intend to!

LunaDog wrote: 5 months ago

Jenny_S wrote: 5 months ago Stay with this thread to find out.

Believe me, i FULLY intend to!

Indeed! Me too!

Dear @LunaDog , dear @Caesar73 So I'll not let you wait much longer for the next part. Keep your fingers crossed for my protagonist. She'll need it.

She swallows hard, forcing her feet to move forward despite the dread coursing through her veins. The warehouse feels endless, the darkness stretching out ahead of her. She flicks on her flashlight, the weak beam slicing through the shadows, illuminating the old, rotting beams and dust-covered floors. It isn’t enough to make her feel any safer, though.

And then, the sound she’s been dreading - a soft click, followed by a low hum.

A single spotlight snaps on, cutting through the darkness with brutal clarity. The light is blinding at first, and Erica instinctively shields her eyes. Her breath catches in her throat as her vision adjusts, and when it does, her heart nearly stops.

There, in the harsh glow of the spotlight, sits Andrea.

She’s tied to an old metal chair, her arms bound tightly behind her back, her legs lashed to the chair’s frame. A dirty, worn rag is stuffed in her mouth, muffling any sounds she might try to make, and a bandage is wrapped around her head multiple times to keep the gag in place. Her face, pale and streaked with dirt and tears, is framed by her disheveled hair. But it’s the sight of her glasses - Andrea’s familiar, thick, black-rimmed glasses - lying shattered on the concrete floor at her feet that makes Erica’s stomach lurch.

Andrea is alive. The fear in her eyes tells Erica everything she needs to know. Her friend is terrified - broken but alive.

"Drea..." Erica whispers, her voice cracking. She takes a tentative step forward, her hands trembling. Relief and fear wash over her in waves, battling for dominance. She wants to run to Andrea, to untie her, to take her far away from this nightmare, but she knows better.

This is a trap. Maze is here, lurking in the shadows, watching, grinning from ear to ear..

Andrea’s wide, pleading eyes track Erica’s every movement, silently begging for help. Erica’s heart aches, but the fear keeps her sharp. Her every nerve screams that she isn’t alone - that this isn’t over.



Erica’s breath comes in shallow bursts as she inches closer to Andrea, her every sense screaming for her to stop, to turn back, to run away and save herself. But she can’t. Her feet move forward slowly, almost as if against her will. She’s waiting - waiting for something to happen. An attack out of the darkness, a gunshot ringing out from the shadows. The air feels thick, electric with tension, and every muscle in her body is coiled, ready to react.

"Drea..." Erica’s voice is barely more than a whisper, soft and trembling. "I’m here..."

Andrea’s tear-streaked face turns toward her, eyes bloodshot and swollen. The gag muffles any sound she’s trying to make, but the desperation in her eyes is all too clear. Her friend is terrified, her body trembling as she strains against the ropes binding her to the chair.

Erica takes another step. Four more and she’ll be able to reach Andrea. She’ll be able to help her. Just a couple more steps.

Then, suddenly, a male voice cuts through the silence like a blade, echoing back from the barren walls of the building.
"Stop, Sinclair!"

Erica freezes, her heart nearly stopping in her chest. The voice is unmistakable - Tony Maze. The man whose face has haunted her for days now. Slowly, she raises her arms just slightly, palms out, showing she has no intention of tricking him. What could she do, anyway? She’s just a lawyer, standing defenseless in front of a man who’s spent a lifetime steeped in violence.

Her pulse thunders in her ears as she glances back at Andrea, whose eyes widen in panic. She’s trying to say something behind the gag, her words swallowed by the fabric that’s silencing her. The rawness in her gaze rips at Erica’s heart.

Suddenly, a soft “click” echoes in the cavernous space, followed by a series of dull, buzzing sounds. One by one, overhead lights sputter to life, casting a harsh, sterile glow over the warehouse. The shadows pull back, revealing the grim setting - a large, empty space littered with broken glass and debris, the cold concrete floor reflecting the faint, flickering light.

Erica locks eyes with Andrea, her friend’s face battered and broken, yet pleading with a silent desperation. “Help me.” those eyes say. “Please, help me.”

The sound of footsteps crunching on glass and gravel snaps Erica’s attention behind her. Someone is approaching - steady, deliberate steps growing closer. Her heart slams against her ribs as dread tightens in her chest.

"Turn around, Sinclair."

The voice is calm, almost too calm, as if Maze has been preparing for this moment for years.

Slowly, Erica pivots on her heel, bracing herself for what she knows is coming. And there he is, only three paces away from her. Tony Maze, the man she last saw in a courtroom, now here with her in that run-down warehouse. He looks older now, the years in prison etched into his face - deep lines around his mouth, and a sharpness in his cold, grey eyes that speaks of rage long simmered. The brutality she remembers, the raw cruelty, is still there, radiating off him like heat.

In his hand, he casually holds a pistol. Its muzzle pointed at her stomach, the mere sight of it sends a shiver through her. Her breath catches in her throat. She bites her lower lip to keep herself steady, but her pulse is racing out of control.

"This is the moment I’ve been waiting for, Sinclair." Maze says, his voice thick with venom. "Nine years. Nine goddamn years, rotting in a cage because of you. Can you imagine what that does to a man like me?"

Erica swallows hard, her throat dry as sandpaper. No, she can’t imagine it. She doesn’t want to. But she knows Maze’s crimes. Knows what he did, what he deserved. He was sentenced to life for good reason, and it was her testimony which was crucial in putting him away.

"You became a big-shot lawyer." he continues, sneering, his voice dripping with hatred. "While I was stuck in that hole, you climbed your way to the top and got famous. Meanwhile, I rotted away."

His words are like shards of glass, sharp and cutting. Erica wants to tell him that he deserves every second of his sentence, that he should still be locked up. But the words catch in her throat. This is not the time to provoke him.

"You want me, Maze." Erica says, her voice low, barely above a whisper, trembling slightly but steady enough. "I’m here. I came. Now let my friend go."

For a brief second, there’s silence. Then Tony Maze laughs - a harsh sound, filled with malice. It’s a laugh devoid of humor, the kind that makes the hairs on the back of Erica’s neck stand on end.

"You think I’m just going to let her walk away?" Maze sneers, the gun now lifting slightly, its barrel glinting in the dull light.

Erica’s heart sinks as the dread wraps tighter around her chest. „No, of course, not.“ she thinks.

"I’m going to kill you both." Maze says, his voice as cold as the steel in his hand. "But I’ll kill her first, so you can watch her die. Then..." He pauses, his lip curling in a cruel smile. "Then I’ll gut you like a deer, Sinclair. I’ll make you bleed out right next to her dead body. How does that sound?"

He raises the gun, leveling it at Andrea’s head.

Erica’s breath catches, her body locking in place as terror claws at her insides. She can’t let this happen. She won’t let this happen. But what can she do? She’s trapped - unarmed, vulnerable, with her friend’s life hanging in the balance. The cold metal of the gun glints under the flickering lights, and for the first time in her life, Erica feels completely powerless.

She has to think. Fast.

"Please..." Erica’s voice cracks, a desperate plea slipping through. "Maze, don’t. It’s me you want. She has nothing to do with this."

He narrows his eyes, that cruel smile never leaving his lips. The gun remains pointed at Andrea.

Anybody who questions why i enjoy reading the product of your pen ( or mouse these days ) should read this post. It is full of suspense, intrigue and detail. A reader almost feels like they are THERE, as Erica confronts her fears. Brilliantly written my friend,

Dear @LunaDog , coming from you, this praise means so much to me. I'm happy you enjoy this story.
This really seems to be the end of the road for Erica (and Andrea). Tonight we will see if Maze pulls the trigger right away or if he wants to torture the ladies before murdering them in cold blood.

Erica’s mind races. Every second feels like a lifetime. Every heartbeat is a countdown to disaster. But she knows one thing for sure: she has to save Andrea. And she has to do it now.

Erica’s breath quickens as she faces Tony Maze, the weight of the moment pressing down on her like a vice. Her mind races, trying to find a way out of this nightmare, when suddenly, cutting through the silence, a gruff voice booms from behind Maze.

"Drop the gun, Maze!"

The voice is unmistakable - John Dance. Relief floods Erica’s chest. She doesn’t know how he got here, but she’s never been more grateful for anything in her life.

For the next few seconds, everything seems to happen in slow motion.

Maze doesn’t lower his weapon. Erica sees it - his body tensing, the slight shift in his arm as the gun rises. It’s a subtle movement, but she knows what’s coming. Before she can even think, her instincts take over. She spins on her heel, her heart slamming against her ribs, and she lunges toward Andrea, throwing herself over her friend’s bound body.

The sound of the gunshot is deafening, like a cannon going off, the report echoing off the cold, bare warehouse walls. It reverberates in her ears, shaking her to the core.

The next moment, a sudden, searing pain explodes through her right shoulder.
It feels like a hammer crashing into her, the force of it knocking her off balance. The pain is white-hot at first, then oddly distant, like her arm doesn’t belong to her anymore. She lands hard on top of Andrea, her weight throwing her friend to the floor along with her. She can hear Andrea’s muffled screams - wild, frantic cries behind that gag - as she writhes beneath Erica, desperate and scared.

But Erica can’t focus on that. She feels her body go heavy, her breath hitching in her throat. Another gunshot rips through the air. And then another. And another. Four, five, six in rapid succession, each one pounding in her ears like crazy.

Then - finally – there’s silence. All of this is happening in maybe three or four seconds.

The smell of cordite hangs thick in the musty air, a bitter tang mixing with the dust and decay of the warehouse. Erica’s arm is numb now, a cold, dead weight hanging useless at her side, but the pain in her shoulder - oh God, the pain - flares with every beat of her heart. She feels something wet and warm trickling down her arm. Blood. Her blood. It’s seeping through her jacket, dripping down her skin, pooling on the cold concrete beneath her. Dripping onto Andrea.

She can feel Andrea shaking, her sobs muffled by the gag, tears streaming down her swollen face. But she’s alive. Drea is alive. Erica holds onto that fact like a lifeline as her vision starts to blur.

Footsteps. Someone is running toward them.

Erica’s vision tilts and spins as Dance kneels beside her, his hands gentle but firm as he pulls her off of Andrea and lays her carefully on her back. The harsh lights above swirl in her eyes, and the pain in her shoulder flares with each shallow breath she takes.

"You’re shot." Dance says, his voice strangely calm amidst the chaos. His eyes scan her wound with a practiced efficiency. "The bullet’s still in there. I can’t see an exit wound."

Erica tries to speak, to say something, but her mouth is dry and her tongue feels thick. The pain is everywhere now, radiating from her shoulder in sharp, jagged waves. Her vision blurs again, and she can only vaguely hear Dance as he pulls out his phone.

"911." Dance says into the receiver, his voice steady but urgent. "I need an ambulance - quickly. A woman’s been shot." He rattles off the address, his tone leaving no room for delay.

Erica’s mind drifts in and out of focus, the adrenaline and blood loss making everything feel distant, surreal. She has no idea how bad the wound is. She doesn’t know if she’s going to live or die. But she knows one thing for certain - her friend Drea is unharmed. Despite the pain, despite the fear clawing at her insides, she feels a flicker of relief.
She’s done what she came to do. She’s protected Andrea, she stood for her.

"Stay with me, Erica." Dance says, his hand pressing lightly on her good shoulder. "Help is coming. You’re gonna be fine."
The cold concrete presses against Erica’s back as she lies there, blood seeping into her clothes, pain pulsing through her shoulder. The world around her fades in and out, the sounds of the warehouse growing distant, and yet she holds on. Holds on to Dance’s voice, to the knowledge that she’s not alone.
And that, maybe, she’ll make it through this.




As Erica slips into unconsciousness, the pain in her shoulder is the last thing she feels before she is pulled under, the world dissolving into nothingness.
She doesn’t hear the sirens wailing in the distance, doesn’t see the flashing lights of the police cars and ambulance arriving at the warehouse. She has no memory of the paramedics putting a pressure bandage on her and being lifted onto the gurney, her limp body stabilized, or the frantic rush to the hospital. She is unaware as they wheel her into the trauma surgery unit, the sterile white lights overhead flashing by, as doctors and nurses work swiftly to extract the bullet from her shoulder and to suture the wound.

Time passes in a blur.