A low, guttural growl escaped Tryson's lips as a sharp, stinging pain radiated from deep within the cracks of his body—wounds he hadn't even realized he had.
His eyes fluttered open, heavy and disoriented, trying to adjust to the darkness that seemed to swallow the room whole.
Every part of him ached, his head throbbing violently as if drums were being beaten inside his skull.
The fog of a restless, nightmarish sleep clung tightly to his mind, making it difficult to focus, to remember, to understand.
Blinking through the shadows, he forced himself to scan the room.
There was nothing but pitch-black silence.
It was as if the world had folded in on itself, leaving only this void and the haunting pulse of pain echoing through his limbs.
Tryson's breath hitched as he attempted to shift, to rise, to move—but his body didn't obey.
That's when it hit him: the memory, fragmented but vivid.
The car.
