I nervously sip my drink, glancing furtively around the café, trying to examine everyone and take in every detail without looking like I’m looking at anyone. Not an easy feat. There aren’t many people in here though - just the barista, a bored-looking man in a suit, a pretty girl with highlights in her hair, and a couple of pensioners doing the crossword together.

Any one of them could be a snatcher. Maybe more than one of them. There’s no way to know. These people are professionals. They could be hiding in plain sight, doing something perfectly innocent, until the moment comes to make their move. Or perhaps they’re nowhere near here yet. Or maybe they’re lurking in the shadows, hiding in the bathroom or in the alleyway next to the café, skulking until they can seize an opportunity to strike.

The bored man looks young and fit - he seems the most obvious choice for a kidnapper, maybe posing as a banker or an estate agent. He’s scrolling through his phone, seemingly not looking up, but perhaps he has great peripheral vision. Then again, it could just as easily be the barista. I don’t recognise her - is she new? It’d be a good strategy, going undercover as someone whose job is to serve drinks. It’d be easy for someone with the skills these people supposedly possess to slip some potent drug in their target’s drink. The pretty girl with the highlights looks innocent enough, just sitting there stirring her drink and staring out of the window, watching members of the public stroll past. But then again, the appearance of placid daydreaming could be just that - an appearance, shallow and deceptive. Even the OAPs can’t be ruled out - greater age means greater experience, after all, and these two might not be as frail and slow as they seem...

I’m being ridiculously paranoid, I know that. I’m a jittery ball of anxiety today (and the coffee isn’t helping - I knew that was a bad choice). But who can blame me? Today’s the day. The day I’ve been looking forward to for so long.

The text first thing this morning - ‘Target to be acquired within the next 12 hours’ - thrilled and terrified me at the same time. There was no going back now. I mean, I’d already paid them after all, a fairly large chunk of my considerable inheritance. Not that I was reconsidering. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks, lying in bed in the dark imagining the target’s abduction and torment, making myself cum over and over again to the vivid fantasy. And before the sun set today, it’ll become reality. There’s no doubt about it.

These people are more than professionals, after all. They’re legends. Of all the cabals of kidnappers lurking in the dark corners of the internet, the Guild of Changelings are spoken of in the most hushed, fearful whispers. No-one ever sees them coming. No-one ever catches them in the act. No-one knows where they’re based, where they take their victims. But stories about what they do to them are well known - their dizzying mixture of intriguing torture techniques are practically a matter of public record. Intense bondage. Various kinds of drugs pumped into the victim’s system. Tickling, whipping, beating and electric shocks. Stuffing them full of various toys and plugs. Attaching various clamps, vices and hooks to their bodies. Sensory deprivation. Asphyxiation. And, on occasion, irresistible brainwashing.

It’s known that they usually snatch their targets in broad daylight, taking them to an undisclosed location, as if to show off what they’re capable of - that they can get away with anything. Depending on the wishes of whomever pays them, they offer a ransom to the abductee’s family or friends, to be paid within 48 hours. If not, the victim vanishes without a trace. Of course, on request, they can skip the ransom and simply disappear them on the spot. Or they can use their potent hypnotic program to alter the target to their client’s liking, and then release them.

Those that never return to their lives are occasionally found elsewhere, on the other side of the world, living under a different name, sometimes fluently speaking a different language, with no knowledge of their former life. Usually they’re working in some sort of service role, such as servants or maids for the rich and powerful, or else they’ve become exotic dancers, strippers or sex workers. Outwardly they have the same face, and the same voice, but they’ve got an entirely different identity, fabricated for them through thorough mental conditioning. They become true changelings.

I don’t want to go that far. I’ve already rigged up an automatic payment to the Guild. In (I check my watch) 45 hours’ time, the ransom money will go through, and their captive will be freed - but not without being subjected to the most exquisitely cruel torments in the meantime. The thought of it makes me quiver.

I tense up as the bored man gets up from his table - but he saunters off towards the toilets. The girl is still staring into space, absently stirring her drink, the metal spoon clinking gently along the china edge. The elderly couple have gathered up their newspaper and are getting up to leave.

It could happen at any moment.

After receiving payment, the Guild took a few weeks to study the abductee and gather as much information as they could about their schedule, their routine, their habits. Slight discounts were offered if clients could offer any useful details, and given how well I know the target, Fiona Baxter, I was able and more than happy to oblige. Clearly by today they thought they had enough to work with, and had decided to swoop in and deprive poor Fiona of her liberty - temporarily, at least. She’d be released in a couple of days, after being put through enough cruel and unusual punishment to make her forget which way was up.

What, exactly, the Guild will do to her is a mystery to me. They like to keep their clients, and their captives, guessing. But I have put in plenty of requests. I’ve described my dirtiest, most degrading fantasies in detail, in the hopes that they’ll carry them out, inflicting them on their restrained, powerless quarry. If they decide to put their own twist on my ideas, a flourish unique to their depraved minds, that’s entirely up to them...

I realise that as I vividly daydream about Fiona’s impending plight, I’m staring at the young woman across the café - or, more precisely, at the still-swirling spoon in her right hand. The continuous movement has caught my eye, the sound of the steel on the side of the mug strangely soothing.

I need to keep a lookout. I don’t want to miss the big moment. The moment when my dream comes true. The moment when my target is taken, spirited away to some dark, secluded place to be bound and beaten, choked and clamped, shocked and fucked...

But the stirring spoon still holds my attention, inexorably compelling me to keep watching, swirling spirals in the surface of the dark drink drawing me in.

The Guild could make their move at any moment, and take the target. I can’t afford to get distracted. Yet... I can’t bring myself to worry about it. Or anything, really. A calmness has settled over me, my anxiety dissipating like mist on a window, my thoughts and feelings set to neutral. As if all my worries have been smoothly sucked out of me and into the coffee vortex I’m fixated upon.

The spoon is removed and placed aside delicately, with barely a clink as it is set on the saucer, leaving the liquid to settle into stillness. I’m still staring at it. I can’t really work out how to do anything else. I can’t remember why I should. There’s movement in my periphery, but it doesn’t disturb me.

“Look at me, sweetheart.”

A finger crooks under my chin at the same instant that those silky soft words reach my ears, lifting my head, and my vacant eyes, towards the pretty face of the girl with the highlights. I find myself just as enthralled by her as I was by her swirling spoon. In contrast with before, when she was dreamily staring out of the window, her eyes are now alert - and twinkling with mischief. I bet I’m the one who looks like she’s daydreaming, now.

Her hands are moving just below my sightline, but I’m not interested in what they’re doing. I’m too captivated by this stunning stranger, her small, secretive smile, and her enchanting eyes.

“Why don’t you finish your drink, dear? Just sit there and drink it all down, and I’ll be back in a moment. Need a quick word with the barista.”

And she slips smoothly out of my view. Staring into the empty space where her face was a second ago, I pick up my drink without looking and drain the cup, before letting it land on the table with a hollow thud.

A second or an hour later, a nimble hand slips into mine, and gently tugs me to my feet. I comply without thinking, without resisting. My new best friend leans back into view, dazzling me with her smile.

“Follow me, Fiona.”

And I follow, thoughtlessly, letting her lead me... wherever. I guess we must have left the café - the light, and the air, feel different, like we’re outside. But I can’t take anything in. My empty eyes are looking forwards, but not really seeing. Everything’s a hazey, dazey blur. Like I’m sleepwalking. I do feel sleepy. Powerfully, unnaturally sleepy, like I’ve taken a sedative.

Thank goodness this girl’s here to guide me, otherwise I’d be completely helpless, half-asleep in the middle of the street. She’s talking to me all the while, soft words spoken in my ear, but quite a lot of it goes in one ear and out the other. Like, “You think we don’t know when we’ve been hired for a self-snatching? Well, don’t you worry, you sweet, silly little rich girl. You’ll get exactly the experience you paid for.”

I don’t notice, at first, when our surroundings shifting from wide and expansive to more enclosed, like we’ve gone down an alley. Maybe we have. My hooded, glassy gaze settles on the rear of a car. The young woman’s hand reaches into view and opens the boot. Then powerful arms are wrapping around my shoulders, and behind my knees, tipping me over. And I’m being lifted, and I’m being laid down, and I’m lying in a small, dark, cosy space, staring at featureless blackness.

A tender hand strokes my shoulder and upper arm. “You have a nice nap in there, darling. When you wake up, you’ll be right where you wanted to be.”

A very vague, fleeting thought flutters through my empty mind: Thank you. Then the boot closes with a clunk, and I’m plunged into total darkness.

The last thing I’m aware of before my eyes roll shut and my consciousness slips away completely is the rumble of an engine beneath me.