The batteries are dying.
Soon I’ll be in complete darkness, lost in this maze with no way out.
The walls are closing in. I can feel them moving, squeezing the air from my lungs.
My chest tightens, and black spots dance at the edges of my vision. I’m back in that closet, terrified, screaming for someone to let me out.
I sink to my knees, my back against the cold stone wall.
The flashlight falls from my trembling hands, its beam pointing uselessly at the ceiling.
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold the pieces together, but I’m breaking apart.
Can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t move.
The darkness is alive, pressing against my skin, filling my mouth and nose.
I’m going to die down here.
They’ll find my body weeks from now, if they find it at all.
Just another victim of Mikhail Artyomov’s cruelty.
Footsteps.
I freeze, my panic momentarily forgotten.
Someone’s coming.
The sound echoes off the stone walls, making it difficult to tell which direction it’s coming from.
Heavy boots, moving with purpose.
Guards.
They’ve found me.
I scramble to my feet, grabbing the flashlight.
Its beam is barely a glow now, but it’s enough to see a few feet ahead.
I stumble forward, away from the footsteps, but the tunnel dead-ends at a wall of collapsed stone.
No. This can’t be happening.
The footsteps grow louder, closer.
I press myself against the wall, as if I could somehow melt into the stone and disappear.
My heart hammers so hard I’m sure whoever’s coming can hear it.
A beam of light cuts through the darkness, much brighter than my dying flashlight.
It sweeps across the tunnel, searching, and I hold my breath, praying they’ll miss me in the shadows yet desperately wishing someone to save me from this hellhole.
The beam finds me, pinning me like an insect under glass.
I can’t see who’s holding the light.
