But I can’t move. I can’t even breathe. The weight of what I’ve just witnessed anchors me in place, paralyzing every nerve in my body. This isn’t just dark fantasy or twisted games—this is a living, breathing nightmare.
What the fuck kind of place is this?
Then she turns, her eyes locking into mine.
Everything snaps back into focus. My body jolts into action, a surge of adrenaline ripping through me. The last thing I hear is her voice, sharp and angry, cursing as I spin on my heel and bolt out of the room.
She fucking saw me.
But as I tear up the stairwell, it hits me—I’m still wearing the mask. I saw her face. She didn’t see mine. That small comfort isn’t enough to quiet the screaming questions in my head.What the fuck have I gotten myself into?
My legs burn as I climb flight after flight of stairs, lungs heaving, the mask suffocating me with every desperate breath. I finally stop, gasping, and yank out my phone.
It’s dead.
Of course it’s dead. Phones don’t work in this place—some bullshit about complete anonymity. Yeah, so people can play their sick little games... or commit murder.
I lift my mask, gulping air that feels like it’s not even reaching my lungs. My chest tightens, panic clawing at me like an iron vice. I haven’t felt like this since I was eight years old.
The memory from my childhood stabs through me—helpless, gasping for air, promising myself I would never let this happen again. Never lose control.
But here I am, suffocating in a stairwell, trapped in a maze of horrors I should have never stepped into.
Clamping my hand over my nose and mouth, I force myself to take small, shallow breaths. The carbon dioxide will force my body to calm down enough to need to grab oxygen. At least, that’s the theory.
With each strained inhale, the tight grip of panic loosens its hold just enough for me to notice something: small, crumpled pieces of paper scattered on the stairs, leading up to the stairwell door.
Breadcrumbs.
It has to be Dominik. He knows me too well—knows I’d never find him without a trail to follow.
My hands shake as I reach for the door, that one name on repeat in my head: Lancaster.
As in the head of the criminal dark underground market in this city. No, the whole fucking country. The worst criminals out there.
And if that’s true, then she was doing us all a favor.
Which is so fucking twisted to even think right now considering what just happened. I can’t even begin to wrap my head around it, but I can’t deny it either. This place, the people who run it, the secrets they’re guarding—it’s all connected.
Focus.
I have to take back my control. Figure out my next move and push past the horrifying images clawing at the edges of my mind. Maybe this was all staged. Maybe Tristan wanted me to see this, to rattle me, to make me question everything. To ground me in this project.
The night. The game of hide and seek. The flames. The knife.
All his idea.
But what the hell am I supposed to do now?
Get it together, Jackson. You’re losing your grip.
You think I don’t know that? Anxiety is a beast I locked away years ago, and yet here it is, roaring back to life. But it’s not every day you see a woman in stilettos drive a knife through a man’s chest.
I need to get out of here. To erase the last hour from my memory.
But how?
How do you forget something like that?
