Not now.
I force myself to breathe instead, slow and controlled, pushing the panic down before it can take over completely, before it can steal the only thing I still have.
My mind.
In, one, two, three…
Out, one, two, three…
I open my eyes.
The room comes into focus gradually, dim and suffocating under a single flickering bulb that casts long shadows overcracked concrete walls and rusted beams, the air thick with the smell of oil, damp, and something chemical that makes my stomach turn.
Then I see him.
Mason.
He’s tied to a chair across the room, his body slumped forward, his face swollen and bruised, one eye nearly shut, his lip split open and dried with blood. His wrists are bound tight enough to strain against the rope, and when he lifts his head, his gaze finds mine instantly.
Relief flashes.
Then panic.
He shakes his head sharply.
No.
Warning.
My pulse spikes, but I shut my eyes immediately, forcing my body back into stillness, letting my breathing even out again like I’m still out, like I haven’t seen anything.
Think.
Listen.
Footsteps echo somewhere beyond the room, voices low and distant at first, then closer, clearer, and I try again to move, smaller this time, testing instead of fighting.
Nothing.
They didn’t just tie me up.
They gave me something.
A wave of nausea rolls through me, but I swallow it down, focusing on the only thing I can still control.
My breathing.
The door creaks open.
“Why isn’t she waking up yet?”
The voice sends a cold wave through me.
Russel.
“Wake her up.”
The command is sharper this time.
