I slide the door shut just as the clouds break.
That’s when the world snaps.
A white flash sears across the windows.
A crack splits the air open.
The lights flicker—
Then die.
Total darkness.
Thick.
Absolute.
Suffocating.
My breath stops mid-inhale.
No.
No, no, no.
The house hum vanishes. The fridge, the AC, the little overhead buzz I’d tuned out hours ago — silent.
The kind of silence that presses against your skin, gets into your teeth, makes the walls feel too close.
My pulse spikes so fast I get dizzy.
My fingers go useless, tingling.
Not the dark.
Not the dark, goddammit.
Not the silence.
I stumble backward, slamming my hip into the counter. The tiny sound is swallowed instantly, as if the room were a throat.
My heart stutters. My hands rise on instinct — shaking, stupidly searching for something to grab.
A memory cuts through me like a blade: a dressing room blackout, hands on me that weren’t supposed to be there, my screams eaten by thick studio walls.
No script.
No control.
Just blind, choking panic.
I gasp, sucking air too fast, too shallow. My lungs refuse to open fully.
“Come on,” I whisper, but it’s useless. My voice trembles. “Come on, Lucky—”
A sudden knock slams through the silence.
I flinch so hard I nearly drop my phone.
