His grip slips.
I move.
I twist my hips, knee driving up between his legs. He stumbles back with a curse, and I crawl across the bed, hand flying for the edge of the nightstand—Nothing.
No weapon.
Just moth wings. Paper. Dozens of them. Scattered like fallen petals.
Useless.
I vault off the bed barefoot, sprinting for the door. My legs are slick, bruised, trembling—but rage is stronger than trauma.
Behind me, I hear him growl.
“RUN, THEN!”
I tear down the hallway. It’s wrong—tilted, flickering, curved, like the walls are breathing with me.
I don’t care.
I follow the cold.
The scent of bleach.
The whisper in my head that says this is where he drags the ones who sayno.
I find a staircase.
Narrow. Rusted.
I take them two at a time.
It leads to a locked metal door.
I slam into it.
Nothing.
But there’s a camera in the corner—watching.
I look right into it.
I don’t scream.
I stare.
Eyes wide.
Mouth bloodied.
Hair wild.
“Damien,” I whisper. “Find me.”
I don’t know whether he sees it.
But I pray he does.
