“Not helping, Archie.”
Archie shrugs.
“I cope with trauma and fear through sarcasm. Can’t help it.”
I glance toward the heavy metal door at the end of the room. No windows. No visible handle on our side. Just thick steel.
“Do you think we’re still in the hotel?” I ask quietly.
Theron shakes his head almost immediately.
“No way.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying the room.
“The windows are too high and there’s no natural light. And that smell…”
He inhales slightly.
“Industrial cleaning chemicals. Concrete walls.”
His voice drops.
“I think we’re probably underground.”
A cold shiver runs down my spine.
“Like… under the hotel?” Archie asks.
“Maybe,” Theron says.
“Or somewhere nearby.”
I glance back at the door again.
My brain keeps trying to piece things together.
The invitation. The party. The guy in the mask.
My stomach twists.
“This doesn’t make any fucking sense,” I mutter.
“Why go through all that trouble? The party, the masks, the invitations, the spiked drinks…”
Archie slowly turns his head toward me.
His expression has lost most of its earlier humor.
“Because,” he says quietly, “they need to get us somewhere without anyone asking questions.”
The air in the room feels colder.
“Human trafficking rings do that sometimes,” Theron adds calmly.
Archie looks at him.
“You say that way too casually.”
