Hosed

London kicks back on the couch, cash still warm from the payout. Macy and Kody want it. They want it bad. They slip inside, grab her fast, and the tape comes out—thick, gray, relentless. It winds around her arms, her legs, her body, until she’s one long silver mummy. Her mouth gets taped too, tight, so every sound stays locked behind plastic and cloth. They lean in close. Macy’s fingers tease, Kody’s voice mocks. They tug at the tape just enough to expose skin, play with what’s left bare, watch her twist and fail to move. Sweat beads. Breath hitches. The tape creaks when she strains. The code slips out between muffled grunts and angry eyes. They laugh, slap the last strip across her face, and walk out with the safe open and the money gone. London stays there, taped and useless, staring at the empty room while the camera keeps rolling.