The whistle.
Low.
Sharp.
Coming from inside the vent.
Right behind the bed.
The whistle won’t stop.
It drags through the vent behind me like a blade across bone. Soft. Precise. Deliberate.
One long. Four short.
The same cadence he used when I was a child.
I force my body upright, breath shaking, throat raw from screaming.
The straps. I twist against them. Hard. The friction burns my skin, but I don’t care.
I yank once more—harder.
And the right strap gives.
My wrist slips free. I scramble to untie the other, fingers trembling too much to hold the knot—but panic is stronger than pain.
The second one rips loose.
I’m up. On my feet. Spinning.
The vent behind the bed is small—smaller than the one in Damien’s place—but wide enough for someone small to fit through.
And it’s open.
Something moved it.
From the inside.
I stare into the darkness beyond the slats.
Silence now.
No more whistling.
No sound at all.
Which means he’s not in the vent anymore.
He’s behind me.
I spin, knife clutched in my hand.
The door has cracked open.
It wasn’t before.
I step toward it slowly, blood rushing in my ears. My pulse louder than the buzz of the light. My bare feet stick slightly to the cold floor, every step too loud.
