I woke with a start, the damp chill of the room crawling up my spine. Darkness clung to the edges of my vision, and for a moment, I couldn't breathe.
My head throbbed—each pulse sharp and jagged—reminding me I wasn't where I should be.
I blinked through the fog clouding my sight. The air was heavy, thick with the sting of antiseptic and something else—metallic. Blood.
I tried to move, but my limbs felt like they'd been carved from stone. My muscles ached from lying on the thin mattress beneath me—barely softer than the concrete floor. I turned my head slowly.
Jason.
He lay on the mattress next to mine, unconscious. His face was twisted in pain, his body tense and unmoving. I reached out with a trembling hand and touched his arm. He was warm—but the comfort I hoped for didn't come. Instead, dread spread through me, thick and suffocating.
Where were we?
How had we ended up here?
Then came the crawling thought—Job. His calm voice. The envelope. My mother's trust.
Had it all been a trap?
Panic surged in my chest, rising like a tide, and just as I opened my mouth to call out—
The door creaked open.
I froze.
A masked figure stepped in, face completely obscured. His presence was cold, calculated. In one gloved hand, he held a medical kit that rattled softly.
"Don't try to move," he said, his voice flat and unreadable.
He approached slowly. I wanted to scream. To fight. But my body betrayed me—frozen, heavy, useless.
He knelt beside me, his movements clinical. I flinched as he touched my side, the sting of antiseptic flaring through me. Still, I couldn't pull away. Couldn't speak. Could only watch.
When he finished, he paused, studying me in silence.
Then he said, almost to himself, "Your mother knew I'd come back for you."
The words chilled me to the bone.
Before I could respond, the door slammed shut behind him.
Silence swallowed the room. Too loud. Too empty.
And I was left with the echo of his voice—and a thousand questions I didn't know how to ask.
Jason stirred beside me with a low groan. His eyes fluttered open, dazed and unfocused, the dim light catching on the sweat lining his brow. He sat up abruptly, wincing as a jolt of pain shot through him.
"Where the hell are we?" he rasped, voice hoarse with exhaustion.
I pushed myself upright, pain flaring fresh in my side. "I don't know," I whispered, watching him scan the room.
It was bare. Four cement walls. A bucket of water in one corner. A steel door with no handle on our side. Above us, a small square vent hummed quietly. No windows. No visible cameras.
Jason dragged himself to his feet, swaying slightly. "Job," he muttered, fury darkening his voice. "That bastard—he drugged us."
He turned, fists slamming against the door. "Open this damn thing! You hear me?!"
I flinched at the sound. "Jason—"
But he didn't stop. "You think this'll hold me?! You think I won't find you?!"
Then it happened.
A soft click. A low, mechanical whine from the ceiling. And then—pain.
A piercing tone split the air, sharp and unnatural, like glass grinding against bone. I cried out, hands flying to my ears. Jason staggered, grabbing his head.
We both dropped to our knees.
Then came the voice.
Calm. Cold. Disembodied.
"The louder you get, the worse it becomes."