PART THREE
EVERYONE DIES HERE
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CANCELLED
HAZEL
Iwake up thinking I’m still in the car, and that assumption lasts exactly long enough for me to try to move. Because the moment I do, pain blooms at the back of my head in a way that is sharp, nauseating, and entirely too bright—as if someone flipped a switch inside my skull without warning.
My stomach lurches and I suck in a breath that tastes wrong—stale, chemical, and heavy in a way air should never be—and I freeze where I am, heart hammering, because nothing about this feels even remotely familiar. There is no hum of the engine, no rhythmic sweep of windshield wipers, and no low tension sitting beside me in the shape of Zack’s clenched jaw. There is only darkness, thick and absolute, pressing in from every direction until depth and distance stop meaning anything at all.
I blink hard—once, twice—trying to force my vision to adjust, but nothing changes, and panic surges up my throat so fast I nearly choke on it. I clamp down before it can turn into a sound,reminding myself to breathe slowly, carefully, because still is safer and quiet buys time. I test my body in small, cautious increments, and the first thing I notice is the ache in my wrists, deep and persistent. The kind of pain that immediately tells me something is wrong even before I try to move them. When I do, there is resistance at every turn. It’s unyielding and deliberate, biting into skin, and the reality of restraints settles in my chest like a dropped weight.
Memory bleeds back in fragments that refuse to line up properly: harsh gas station lights reflected on wet pavement, rain streaking across my vision, Zack’s voice mid-sentence, the sudden grip on my arm—rough and unmistakable—followed by a sharp pull and an explosion of pain that cut everything else off. The nameZackforms in my head like a prayer and a wound all at once, tightening my chest until breathing takes conscious effort. I force myself not to move, to not give whoever did this the satisfaction of seeing me break first.
I focus instead on cataloging what I can feel, grounding myself in the physical because the unknown is too big to stare at directly. Cold concrete presses into my back through my clothes, stealing heat slowly and efficiently, while my ankles are bound close together, confirming what happened to my wrists was not an isolated decision. There is a faint electrical hum somewhere nearby—constant but unobtrusive—and the air smells faintly of dust and metal. My hoodie is still on. My shoes, too.
The prickle at the base of my neck arrives before the sound does, a quiet certainty that I am no longer alone. I swallow hard while keeping my breathing even, refusing to curl inward or make myself smaller. When I speak, my voice comes out hoarse but steady—a thin thread of normalcy stretched into the dark. “Wow,” I murmur, “ambience isn’t great. Very dungeon-adjacent.”
The words vanish almost immediately, swallowed by the space, and for a moment there is nothing at all before footsteps approach—slow, measured, unhurried—stopping just beyond arm’s reach. I hear fabric shift, a quiet exhale, then a light flips on.
The brightness is brutal against the darkness that had surrounded me. White explodes behind my eyes and sends fresh pain slicing through my skull as my pupils rebel. When I force my eyes open again, blinking rapidly, the room swims into focus in uneven pieces. Bare concrete walls. A single exposed bulb hanging from the ceiling. Shadows clinging stubbornly to the corners like they don’t intend to leave. I am on the floor, wrists bound in front of me, ankles secured—exactly as I expected.
A figure stands a few feet away, their face completely obscured by a smooth, dark mask that gives me nothing to work with. I can’t see any features—no skin, no hair, no tells—just a blank surface designed to erase identity entirely. My pulse stutters anyway, instinct screaming that this anonymity is not accidental but intentional, another layer of control.
“Good,” the masked figure says calmly, their voice careful and neutral, altered just enough to be unreadable. “You’re awake.”
Not a question.
I swallow and lift my chin, forcing my body to cooperate as fear coils tighter around my ribs, and manage a faint, crooked smile. “You know,” I say lightly, “this would be a lot less unsettling if you started with introductions.”
There is a pause, and then something like amusement flickers beneath the calm. “That’s interesting,” the figure says. “You’re still making jokes.”
“Occupational hazard,” I reply, my voice steadier than I feel. “Some people scream. I make bad jokes.”
They step closer, just enough for the light to reflect off the smooth surface of the mask which still reveals nothing, and the sense of being measured intensifies. “Do you know why you’re here, Hazel?” they ask.
The way my name is spoken—precise and deliberate—lands heavier than the restraints ever could. I don’t answer right away, choosing my silence carefully. “If this is about parking tickets,” I say finally, “I maintain that several of those were deeply unjust.”
The quiet stretches, thick and uncomfortable. “You really don’t understand,” the masked figure says at last. Beneath the calm is something colder now—not anger, but certainty. “This was always going to happen.”
Always.
The word drops through me, heavy and final, and the joking instinct falters as memories align too cleanly to ignore: the unknown number, the vibrating phone, the way Zack’s shoulders never fully relaxed no matter how hard I tried to keep things light.
“Where is Zack?” I ask, and this time the brightness slips from my voice no matter how much I try to hold onto it.
The masked figure tilts their head slightly, considering, and although I cannot see their expression, I feel the weight of it all the same.
And in that moment, with my wrists burning and my heart pounding and the room pressing in from all sides, clarity settles in with terrifying calm.
This was never about me being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I wasn’t collateral.
I was the point.
