I rose slowly. I wanted to scream. Not from fear. From the weight of knowing this was already too late. The doorknob twitched. I froze. No voice. No sound.
Just the subtle squeal of the metal under pressure. The lock clicked. And the door creaked open. Not fast. Not like force. Like invitation.
I didn’t move. My breath came in short, sharp bursts. The pipe shook in my hands. Then he stepped inside. He wasn’t tall. He wasn’t masked. And somehow—that made it worse.
His hair was shaved close to the scalp. His face pockmarked. His eyes empty. He looked like someone who’d never been caught. Like someone who never had to run.
He smiled when he saw me. Not wide. Not cruel. Just sure. Like I was already his. I raised the pipe. He tilted his head, as if amused.
“Easy now,” he said, voice low, calm.
I swung. He ducked. Fast. Too fast. His hand caught my wrist. Pain bloomed up my arm as he twisted.
I screamed.“Wolfe!”
He didn’t flinch. He slammed me back into the wall, pipe clattering to the ground. His breath hit my face. Hot. Sour.
I fought.
Kicked. Scratched.Wild.
I caught the side of his face with my nails. Skin tore. He grunted. He pushed his weight against me. Crushing against the wall.
I tried to buck.
Tried to draw breath.
“Wolfe! WOLFE!”
My phone.
I reached down. Drawing it free. Before an elbow to the stomach. Hard enough to tear the wind from my lungs. My phone slipped. Clattering to the floor.
Then his hand went to his pocket. I saw it too late. The cloth. The bottle. The rag. I thrashed harder.
His arm locked around my throat. Not choking—just holding.
“Don’t make this worse than it has to be,” he hissed.
He pressed the rag to my face.
The scent hit instantly.
Sweet.
Rotten.
Wrong.
Chemical.
My lungs locked. I held my breath. But it was too late. The edges of my vision began to ripple. Black pressed in from all sides.
I twisted.“Nooo.”
The word warped and slow. My nails scraped his forearm. Blood.
He growled. Pressed harder. The cloth soaked through my skin. My knees buckled. My grip loosened. The room spun.
