My mind is racing. I’ve often thought about what I would do if placed in a life-or-death situation, but that’s not much help now. I stifle my fear. I can’t let him know I’m afraid. Maybe if I don’t show any emotion then he won’t kill me; most killers need to see the terror on their victims’ faces, it’s part of the fantasy, what makes it satisfying, I read that somewhere, or maybe it was on TV, I don’t remember. But maybe if I don’t act scared he’ll get frustrated, become violent, unhinged, do whatever he can to make me squirm. He tilts his head, bulging wide eyes watching expectantly. He looks me up and down, and setting my jaw i stare back at him. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“You gonna say something?” he asks, voice surprisingly... normal. You’d expect him to sound, I don’t know, raspy, gruff, scary. But he doesn’t. He just sounds normal. Say something, quick, anything.

“I have three cats,” I say quietly. He blinks.

“What?”

“At home, I have three cats. Like, as pets,” i continue, the words spilling out rapidly. “Two Calicos, their names are Merlin and Morgana, and a tabby, her name’s Guinevere.” He stares at me, expression unreadable. My words hang in the air, the tension as thick as treacle, until after what feels like an eternity he chuckles. A joyless sound.

“So what?” he says mockingly. I hover, unsure how to answer, hyperaware of my every movement.

“You’re supposed to humanise yourself,” I say, voice cracking. The words come out as an awkward whisper and I cringe, kicking myself internally. Forcing myself to speak louder in an attempt to feign confidence, I continue: “When faced with a situation in which another person is considering whether to kill you, you’re supposed to share personal details. Your interests, family, things that remind the other person that you’re a person, too. Clearly that’s not going to work in this scenario, though, as you don’t care that I’m a person, that’s not going to stop you. For you that’s the whole point, you enjoy seeing other people suffer. I could appeal to you through logic,” I suggest casually.

“Point out the fact that if you leave me alive you’ll be far, far away by the time anyone gets here. You could tie me up, or even knock me out, actually,” I reason. “You’re a large man, obviously very strong physically, and it’s not as if I’m going to be able to escape or even to call anyone by the time you’ve left. You could be out of the city in an hour.”

I pause, allow him to digest what I’ve said, proud of myself for the subtle flattery I slipped in. That was good, very good, it’ll boost his ego, make him less likely to shut me up. “You could even take me with you. Tie me up, toss me in the back of your white van - I assume it’s a van you’re travelling in, the news are always telling us to be suspicious of men in white vans - and dump me at the side of a road somewhere. By the time I got someone to take me home you’d be long gone.

“And I could mislead the police,” I add hopefully. “Tell them it was a small man in a brown coat, or someone balding with a dark beard, or that he had a scarred face and spoke with a stutter. Obviously if you were to leave me alive, you wouldn’t be there at the end to find out if I stay true to my word. You don’t know me well enough to rely on me. There’s always the threat of you coming back to kill my family, I suppose. But there’s not much chance of that happening, is there? After all, we both know none of what I’m saying is going to happen. You’d never leave me knocked out, alone, or take me away with you. You’d certainly never pass up on the opportunity to murder a teenage girl just because she appealed to your sense of humanity,” I say sarcastically.

A lopsided grin spreads slowly across his face. “We both know I’m going to die here,” I finish with resignation. “At the very least, let me look at a photo of my cats first.”

He chuckles again, chin jutting forward as he nods slightly. “I like you,” he smirks. “It’s a shame you have to die.”