My breathing evened out. The afternoon light shifted across the frost-covered windows, throwing long shadows across the floor.
Peace. Quiet. Safety.
Then I heard it.
A muffled thud from the hallway.
Snapped awake.
Sat up too fast. The room spun briefly before stabilizing.
“Clare?”
No answer.
Silence. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that came after something ended.
Was moving before I fully processed the wrongness.
Out of bed. Across the room. Yanked the door open.
The hallway was empty. Dark except for the single bare bulb overhead.
Then I saw it.
Clare’s water bottle. Dropped. Rolling slowly across the wooden floorboards toward me.
She wouldn’t drop that. Not unless...
Fresh drag marks on the floor. Leading toward the back stairs.
No blood. No struggle sounds. Professional. Fast.
My heart stopped.
“Clare!” Louder this time. The rasp in my damaged throat sharpening into something desperate.
Still no answer.
Sprinted down the hallway. Bare feet slapping against cold wood. The drag marks ended at the door to the service stairs, the ones that led directly to the west exit.
Slammed through the door.
The stairwell was empty. Cold air rushed up from below.
While I was resting in bed, thinking we were safe.
“Hellhound!” Couldn’t control the raw fury. “HELLHOUND!”
Footsteps pounded up the main stairs. Hellhound appeared at the end of the hallway, weapon already drawn.
“What’s wrong?”
Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t form the words.
Pointed at the water bottle. At the drag marks. At the open door to the service stairs.
Hellhound’s expression went cold. Tactical. He crossed to the stairwell in three long strides, scanning the shadows below.
