The first thing she feels is the cold.

A biting, unnatural chill that clings to her skin, seeping into her bones. It’s not the kind of cold you get from a winter breeze—it’s sterile, metallic.

Artificial.

Her eyes flutter open, unfocused, adjusting to the dim glow of a sickly yellow light above her.

The ceiling is smooth concrete, cracked in places, lined with dark stains her mind blurs.

Panic swells in her chest before she even knows why. Her breath hitches, shallow and fast, too fast. Something is wrong.

She tries to sit up.

Nothing moves.

Her arms—pinned. Strapped. Her legs—dead weight, tied down at the ankles.

A thick, unyielding material bites into her wrists, keeping them spread apart. Her breathing turns ragged. Her heartbeat is thunderous, deafening in the quiet.

She lifts her head just enough to see.

A slab.

She’s lying on a smooth metal surface, slightly tilted.

There’s a drain below her feet, rusted and clogged. The air is thick with something coppery, something sickly sweet

The smell clings to the back of her throat, sticky and wet. Blood.

Not hers.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Not yet.

Her stomach clenches. She fights the urge to vomit. Stay calm. Stay calm.

Her mind races. Where am I? How did I get here? Who—?

The last thing she remembers—Streetlights, pavement slick with rain. Footsteps. Too many. A voice, soft and playful. Something sweet-smelling pressed against her face. Darkness.

She shudders. Oh, God.

She strains against the bindings. They don’t give.

Her body aches from being restrained too long. Her mouth is dry, lips chapped. How long has she been here?

A faint sound.

Dripping.

A steady, rhythmic patter against the floor. She turns her head, vision unfocused, searching.

There—across the room, something dark glistening beneath the harsh light. A red puddle, spreading from the edge of another metal slab.

The shape resting on it is covered, draped in something plastic, but she knows—

She knows what it is.

Her chest tightens. She is not alone.

Not really.

She swallows hard, forcing down the rising bile.

Think. Move. Get out.

The bindings dig into her wrists as she pulls, twists. Nothing.

She exhales shakily, shifting her focus. What else? What can I use?

The room is dim, but her eyes are adjusting. Walls lined with stainless steel counters. Shelves

Blades. Rows of them, gleaming under the sickly light. Some are clean. Some aren’t.

Something shifts in the silence.

A sound—

Footsteps.

Slow. Measured. Close.

Her blood runs cold.

The door creaks open.