Stories of Tie Up Games

Sofia Alvarez had always stood out, her wiry frame topped with a tangle of dark curls that she perpetually swept back with a flick of her hand. At twenty, she carried herself with a quiet confidence, her sharp brown eyes catching details others missed—a habit from years of sketching street scenes back home in Valencia. Amara Patel, her roommate and reluctant partner-in-crime, was her opposite: soft-spoken and petite, with long black hair that fell in a sleek curtain down her back, framing a face that still held a trace of teenage roundness at nineteen. Her hazel eyes often darted nervously, a contrast to Sofia’s steady gaze, but her quick wit had made them fast friends during their exchange program in Mexico.
That morning, they’d been perched at a rickety table outside a border town café, the kind of place where the coffee was bitter and the air smelled of dust and frying tortillas. Sofia wore a faded red tank top and cargo shorts, her sketchbook open to a half-finished drawing of the plaza’s crumbling fountain. Amara, in a loose white blouse and denim skirt, scrolled through her phone, giggling at a meme about their linguistics professor. It was their last free weekend before midterms, a fleeting taste of normalcy.
Then came the screech of tires. A battered black van skidded to a stop beside them, kicking up a cloud of grit. Sofia’s pencil froze mid-stroke as three men burst out, faces obscured by ski masks, movements swift and practiced. The first grabbed Amara, his gloved hand clamping over her mouth as she shrieked, her phone clattering to the ground. Sofia lunged to her feet, adrenaline surging, but a second man was on her in an instant. His arm hooked around her neck, yanking her backward, while the cold muzzle of a pistol pressed against her temple. “Quiet, or you’re dead,” he hissed, his breath hot and sour with tobacco.
Amara kicked wildly, her sneakers scraping the pavement, but the third man joined in, pinning her arms and slapping a strip of duct tape over her mouth. Sofia’s own scream was cut short as a rag was shoved past her lips, the taste of dirt and oil flooding her senses, followed by more tape sealing it in place. Blindfolds came next—filthy strips of cloth tied so tight they pinched her skin. The world went dark, and then they were moving, dragged into the van’s stifling interior. Ropes lashed their wrists together, the fibers rough and unyielding, before they were shoved face-down onto the floorboards. The engine roared to life, and the vehicle jolted forward, leaving the café—and their old lives—behind.
Now, hours later, the jungle air clung to their skin, heavy with humidity and the sour tang of rotting leaves. Sofia’s sneakers sank into the mud with each stumbling step, the rope around her wrists biting deeper as she tried to steady herself. Beside her, Amara’s ragged breathing cut through the drone of insects, her own bound hands tugging at the coarse line that linked them together. A coffle, Sofia thought dimly—a word she’d read in some history book, now a brutal reality. The rope ran from Sofia’s wrists to Amara’s, then looped through a metal ring on the belt of the man ahead, a silent promise that any attempt to stop or pull back would yank them all into chaos.
They’d been walking for hours, blindfolded and gagged, the rags in their mouths turning every cry into a pitiful whimper. Sofia’s jaw ached, her tongue pressed uselessly against the dry wad, tasting dust and her own fear. Every swallow felt like choking. Amara’s white blouse was now streaked with dirt, her skirt torn at the hem from tripping over roots, while Sofia’s tank top stuck to her back, soaked with sweat.
“Move, gringas!” The voice was sharp, accented, and laced with impatience. A hand shoved Sofia’s shoulder, sending her staggering into Amara. The rope jerked taut, and Amara let out a stifled yelp, the sound warped by her gag. Sofia’s mind flickered back to the van—the leader’s rasped orders, “dinero” and “rápido,” money and fast, as he’d barked into a phone. There were three of them: the leader with the gravelly voice, a younger one who muttered curses, and a silent third whose heavy boots now thudded behind her. Their hunger for ransom was a coiled energy, every touch a warning.
The ground leveled out, the air growing stale with mildew. A metallic clang echoed, followed by the creak of hinges. Hands gripped Sofia’s arms, shoving her forward until her knees hit a wall, and she crumpled to the floor. Amara landed beside her with a muffled groan, their shoulders brushing. The blindfolds stayed on, but Sofia sensed the shift: they were inside, the jungle’s chorus replaced by dripping water and faint scuttling.
“Down,” the leader snapped, his tone flat but menacing. Rough hands hauled Sofia upright, then forced her into a crouch. Her wrists throbbed as the coffle rope was untied, only for new cords to lash her hands behind her back, tighter than before, cutting into her skin. Her elbows were pulled together until her shoulders screamed, bound with more rope that looped around her chest, pinning her arms to her spine. She squirmed, and a sharp slap across her cheek silenced her, the sting blooming hot against the gag’s adhesive.
Amara’s breathing hitched into a choked sob as her own bindings were secured—rope rustling, tape snapping. Ankles next—Sofia’s legs were yanked together, cord wound so tight her feet tingled. A final tug forced her into a fetal curl, knees lashed to her chest with a rope that hooked around her neck. If she straightened, it would choke her. Stay small, stay still, or suffer.
The cell was tiny, Sofia’s shoulder against one wall, her bound feet brushing another. Amara’s trembling frame crowded her, their sweat-slick skin sticking together. The air was thick, suffocating, reeking of damp concrete and fear. A heavy door slammed shut, the lock clicking, footsteps retreating. Silence fell, save for the drip-drip-drip and Amara’s stifled gasps.
Sofia’s mind churned, panic clawing at her chest. The bindings were unrelenting—wrists raw, shoulders burning, throat constricted. She couldn’t see, couldn’t speak, couldn’t move without risking more agony. Amara nudged her, a desperate press, and Sofia leaned back, a silent vow they weren’t alone. But as the minutes stretched, the weight of their fate sank in: captives of men who saw them as dollar signs, locked in a cage where every breath fought despair. This was only the beginning.

The cell seemed to breathe, its damp walls exhaling a chill that seeped into Sofia’s bones. Time blurred in the darkness, measured only by the steady drip of water and the erratic rhythm of Amara’s sobs, now reduced to faint, hiccupping breaths. The ropes held them in their cruel embrace, unrelenting as the hours—or days?—crawled by. Sofia’s fingers, numb from the tight cords, twitched uselessly behind her back, searching for any slack that didn’t exist. Her neck ached from the rope tethering it to her knees, a constant reminder of her fragility. Beside her, Amara’s trembling had subsided into an eerie stillness, as if she’d retreated inward, away from the nightmare they shared.
A sudden clang jolted them both—the cell door swinging open with a groan of rusted hinges. Heavy boots thudded against the concrete, and the air shifted, thick with the scent of tobacco and something sharper, like rust or blood. Sofia’s pulse spiked, her blindfolded eyes straining against the cloth as if she could will herself to see. Amara whimpered, a pitiful sound swallowed by her gag.
“Up, little birds,” the leader’s gravelly voice rasped, closer now. Rough hands seized Sofia’s arms, hauling her to her knees. The rope around her neck tightened briefly, choking her until she gasped against the rag, then loosened as she was dragged upright. Amara’s muffled cry followed, and Sofia felt the brush of her friend’s elbow as they were pulled into the center of the cell. The concrete bit into her shins, cold and unyielding.
“Time to sing for your supper,” the younger captor sneered, his voice high and jagged, like he was teetering on the edge of laughter or violence. A metallic click sounded—scissors, Sofia realized with a shiver—as he knelt beside her. The blunt edge grazed her cheek, teasing, before snipping the tape from her gag. The rag was yanked out, leaving her mouth raw and dry, her tongue sticking to the roof as she coughed. Amara’s gag came next, her gasp echoing in the cramped space.
“P-please,” Amara stammered, her voice cracked and small. “We don’t have money. Our families—”
“Shut it,” the leader snapped. A slap rang out, and Amara yelped, her words dissolving into a sob. Sofia clenched her jaw, fury bubbling beneath her fear. She wanted to scream, to demand answers, but the memory of that pistol against her temple kept her silent.
The third captor, the silent one, finally spoke, his voice low and deliberate, like a blade sliding from its sheath. “They’ll pay. Everyone has a price.” Something cold and thin—a chain, maybe—clinked in his hands, and Sofia’s stomach twisted. “We just need proof they’re alive. For now.”
Proof. The word hung heavy, a lifeline laced with dread. Sofia’s mind raced—were they recording a video? A ransom call? She heard the rustle of fabric, then a faint beep—a device powering on. The younger one chuckled, a sound that made her skin crawl. “Smile, gringas. You’re stars now.”
“Start talking,” the leader ordered. “Names. Families. Tell them you’re alive, and they better pay fast. Fifty thousand each. No games.”
Sofia swallowed, her throat sandpaper-dry. “I’m Sofia Alvarez,” she croaked, forcing the words out. “From Valencia, Spain. My parents—they’re not rich, but they’ll try. Please, don’t hurt us.” Her voice wavered, but she kept it steady, picturing her mother’s worried frown, her father’s quiet resolve. She didn’t know if it was enough.
Amara’s turn came slower, her breath hitching. “Amara Patel. From London. My dad… he works in an office. My mum’s a nurse. They’ll find a way. Just—please.” Her plea broke into a whisper, fragile as glass.
The beep cut off, and silence fell, thick and oppressive. The leader grunted, satisfied. “Good enough. Tie ’em back up.”
The younger one moved first, his hands quick and careless. Sofia’s gag was shoved back in, fresh tape slapped over her lips, sealing her voice away. The ropes on her wrists were checked, tightened until she winced, a dull throb spreading up her arms. Amara’s soft cry told her the same was happening beside her. Then came the chain—the silent one’s work. Cold links wrapped around Sofia’s ankles, looping through the ropes and cinching tight, a new layer of restraint that clinked with every twitch. Amara’s chains rattled next, a metallic echo that filled the cell.
But the captors weren’t done. A rustling sound—plastic?—preceded a sudden weight over Sofia’s head. A sack, coarse and smelling of mildew, plunged her into deeper darkness, the fabric clinging to her face with each breath. Panic flared as her air turned hot and stale, the blindfold beneath now a pointless relic. Amara’s muffled scream confirmed she’d been hooded too, her thrashing tugging at the ropes that bound them close.
“Keeps ’em quiet,” the younger one said, amused. “And confused. They won’t know where we’re taking ’em next.”
Next? Sofia’s heart sank. The cell had been a hell, but it was static, predictable. Movement meant uncertainty—new risks, new torments. She strained against the ropes, the chain biting into her ankles, but there was no give, no escape.
Hands gripped her again, dragging her across the floor. The sack scratched her cheeks, amplifying every sound: Amara’s ragged breathing, the captors’ muttered Spanish, the clatter of gear being packed. A door creaked, and humid air rushed in, thick with jungle rot. They were moving again—where, she couldn’t guess. The chain between her ankles clinked with each forced step, a dirge for their fading hope.
As they stumbled into the unknown, Sofia clung to one thought: survival. She’d draw every detail—every sound, every smell—into her mind, a map to freedom she’d sketch when the time came. Beside her, Amara’s quiet resolve mirrored her own. They were bound, hooded, and broken—but not beaten. Not yet.