1
ROWAN
I feel the cold before my memory comes back. It seeps through my coat and pants, working its way into my spine, settling between muscle and bone until the concrete beneath me feels less like a surface and more like a slab of ice against my back. My cheek rests against the floor. It’s uneven in places and slightly damp.
I keep my eyes closed and let my breathing even out before I attempt to move. My hands are tied behind my back, the knot resting high between my shoulder blades. Rope circles my wrists, tight enough that I can feel the pull when I flex my fingers, but not tight enough to cut off circulation. There’s a faint tingling along the pads of my fingers that comes from pressure rather than loss of blood flow. I flex them one at a time, small movements that don’t pull at my shoulders, and wait to see if sensation returns fully. It does.
I draw in a slow breath and let it out, paying attention to the way my ribs expand and fall again. There’s an ache at the base of my skull, dull and steady, but no nausea rising with it. I swallowand wait to see if the room tilts. My vision stays clear, and the concrete remains still beneath me.
When I open my eyes, the ceiling stretches high above me, steel beams crossing under corrugated metal panels. A single industrial light hangs from a chain, its glow thin and yellow. The chain sways slightly, and the movement drags faint shadows across the beams overhead. Dust floats lazily beneath the light, disturbed by nothing but the small currents of air moving through the building. I’m in a warehouse.
I roll one wrist slightly against the rope and feel the fibers scrape against my skin that’s already irritated. When I draw my shoulders back even a fraction, the rope pulls tight and holds. The strain spreads down my arms and settles in my elbows.
Somewhere deeper in the building, I can hear a faint drip of water hitting metal at irregular intervals. The air smells like rust and old wood. There’s a faint trace of oil soaked into the concrete beneath me, the scent rising when I ease the pressure off my hip.
Something moves to my left.
“Rowan?”
Lila’s voice reaches me quietly as she leans a little closer, careful to keep it low.
I turn my head slowly, the movement pulling at the ache in my skull, but not enough to blur my vision. She lies a few feet away, propped partly on her side, her hair tangled against the collar of her coat. Her hands are tied in front of her, the rope looped twice, and the ends resting loosely against her knees.
“I’m here,” I tell her.
She blinks as if focusing, then presses her lips together and nods.
“My head hurts.”
“Mine too,” I answer.
“They dragged me out of the SUV,” she says. “I think I hit my head.”
Her voice wavers briefly before smoothing out. I study her face in the weak light. She closes her eyes briefly and opens them again.
“Are you nauseous?” I ask.
“No.”
“Vision clear?”
“Yes.”
She tests the rope with her hands and winces when it pulls against her wrists, the fibers pressing into skin that is pink from friction.
“Move slower,” I tell her. “Give your body a minute.”
The concrete beneath me continues to draw heat from my hip and shoulder. I roll slightly onto my side to change the pressure and feel the rope tighten again behind my back. My shoulders burn from being pulled backward, and I ease them down carefully, so the strain distributes more evenly across my upper arms.
A low vibration moves through the floor beneath us, subtle but distinct. It rolls under my shoulder and into my ribs before fading. The metal beams overhead vibrate with a faint tremor. I stay still and listen.
A few minutes later, it returns, stronger this time, followed by a distant metallic grind that echoes through the structure. The rhythm is familiar, steel on steel, wheels against track. It’s a train.
“How long have you been awake?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Lila answers, her voice rough. “It was dark when I came to. I couldn’t see anything.” She swallows once. “I yelled until my throat hurt.”
“Did anyone answer?” I ask quietly.
