Both my palm, fist—my hand is hurting from banging the door of the master's bedroom that they locked from outside. I left my phone on my studio and my laptop on the library downstairs. I have no means of asking help from my friends or the police.
With the last drop of my strength and energy. I once again knock on the door but heard nothing in return. I am not sure if his men that brought me in here is guarding the door from the other side.
As if I already run out of faith that someone will come up and open this door, obliging my words and demand. I turn my back and leans against the door until I am sitting on the coldness of the marble floor.
A bitter smile painted my lips after I banged my head on the door. I got waves of flashback and those pieces of puzzles that I get to pick up a
