Her feet dangled in the air, the darkness making it impossible for her to tell whether the floor was just a few centimeters away or if she was suspended over an abyss. Xenagrosh flexed her limbs one at a time, counting at least a dozen of cuts and many more bruises.
Much to her surprise, the cuts started shallow on her face and the back of her head, becoming deeper as they moved down toward her navel. They stopped right below her right lung and extended all the way to her back.
The sense of smell that made her the best tracker in the Organization returned to her first. She smelled the sweet scent of fresh blood first, too much to belong only to her. Then, she sensed the acrid stench of rotten flesh and the metal sting of dried blood.
The air, instead, was fresh and carried no trace of dust.
'This is too dirty to be a slaughterhouse and too clean to be a tomb.' She thought, squinting her eyes in an attempt to catch a glimpse of her surroundings.
