Then she walks out of the room.
The door shuts behind her with a heavy thud.
I’m left sitting in the chair, my wrists still bound, surrounded by the silent, terrifying guards who watch me without blinking.
I refuse to show fear.
Instead, I force myself to breathe slowly and look around.
The room is part of a warehouse—high ceilings, steel beams, and concrete floors stained with oil and dust. The air smells faintly of rust and gasoline.
My eyes move carefully, studying everything without making it obvious.
One door.
No windows.
Four guards inside the room.
Two near the walls. One by the door. One leaning against a crate near the back.
I listen.
Footsteps pass occasionally in the hallway outside. Different rhythms. Different weights.
I start counting them.
One heavy step—probably the same guard pacing the corridor.
Another lighter set every few minutes.
Guard rotation.
My gaze drifts to the ceiling.
Old ventilation ducts.
Too small to crawl through.
Still…useful to remember.
I catalog everything—the distance to the door, the position of the men, the tension in the ropes around my wrists.
I will not be a helpless pawn.
Minutes crawl by.
Then—
Gunfire erupts outside.
Sharp.
Precise.
Not chaotic.
Controlled.
