7: The Great Escape

    Cold.

    

    That’s the first thing I register when consciousness creeps back in. Not the sharp cold of winter air, but something heavier—something that sinks into my skin and refuses to leave.

    

    My head throbs. My mouth is dry. When I try to move, pain flares through my wrists.

    

    Rope.

    

    My eyes snap open. Darkness presses in on all sides, broken only by a dim, flickering light somewhere to my left. Stone digs into my cheek. My arms are bound behind my back, my ankles tied so tightly that my legs tingle with numbness.

    

    My breath comes fast and shallow.

    

    Okay. Okay. Don’t panic.

    

    I swallow hard, forcing myself to focus. Wooden beams stretch overhead. Iron fixtures line the walls. This isn’t a car. It isn’t a basement. It’s… older. Rougher.

    

    The air smells wrong—earthy and sharp, like damp soil and metal.

    

    Memory hits me in fragments. The restaurant. Candlelight. The hallway. Then hands. Voices. Darkness.

    

    My heart slams against my ribs.

    

    Kade.

    

    The thought sends a fresh wave of confusion through me. Why hasn’t he come? Why hasn’t he noticed I’m gone? Where’s my phone? Where’s my bag? Gosh, it was at the table. I push the questions away. Thinking about this won’t help me get out.

    

    Footsteps echo somewhere beyond the room.

    

    I freeze. My breathing slows instinctively as shadows stretch across the stone floor. Voices murmur—low, controlled, not rushed. There’s more than one of them.

    

    A door creaks open. Light spills inside, brighter now, and I squeeze my eyes shut just in time.

    

    “She’s waking up,” someone says.

    

    I force myself to stay still, but my heart betrays me, pounding violently.

    

    Hands grip my arm. Not rough. Firm. Purposeful and took a sniff?

    

    “She’s awake,” another voice confirms.

    

    So much for pretending.

    

    I open my eyes slowly, blinking against the light. Three men stand in front of me. Tall. Broad. Dressed in dark clothes that look practical, almost uniform-like. Their expressions aren’t angry. They’re… focused.

    

    “Where am I?” I ask, my voice hoarse. “Why did you bring me here?”

    

    None of them answer immediately. One of them studies me, his gaze sharp and unsettling in its intensity.

    

    “You’ll be safe if you cooperate,” he says calmly.

    

    Safe.

    

    The word feels absurd. “You kidnapped me,” I say, my voice shaking despite my effort to sound steady.

    

    “For now,” he replies.

    

     “Why am I here?” I demand, my voice shaking despite my effort to sound strong.

    

     “Who are you?”

    

     None of them answers. They just exchange glances with another like some silent communication passing between that i don’t understand.

    

    They leave shortly after, the door slamming shut behind them with a final, echoing clang.

    

    The silence that follows is worse.

    

    I sag against the stone, my chest tight. Panic claws at me, threatening to overwhelm everything else. I bite down hard, forcing myself to stay present. Crying won’t help. Screaming won’t help.

    

    Escaping might.

    

    I twist my wrists carefully, testing the rope. Pain flares, sharp and immediate, but I grit my teeth. The rope feels old. Worn. It gives—just slightly.

    

    Hope sparks.

    

    I scan the room, memorizing every detail. The flickering torch on the wall. The uneven stones beneath my feet. The door. No windows. No obvious exits.

    

    Time stretches. My arms ache. My fingers go numb. But slowly—painfully—I work the rope back and forth, inch by inch.

    

    Footsteps again.

    

    I still instantly, heart racing.

    

    The door opens. One man steps inside, carrying a metal cup. He sets it down near me.

    

    “Drink,” he says.

    

    I hesitate. “What is it?”

    

    “Water.”

    

    My throat burns with thirst. I lean forward as far as the ropes allow and take small sips.

    

    As he turns away, something inside me snaps.

    

    Fear. Desperation. Instinct.

    

    I jerk my arms hard, twisting sharply. The rope gives. Not completely—but enough.

    

    I surge forward, knocking the cup aside. Water splashes across the stone.

    

    I run.

    

    Barefoot. Unsteady. Heart pounding. I burst into the corridor, the stone freezing beneath my feet. Shouts erupt behind me.

    

    They’re fast. Too fast.

    

    I push myself harder, lungs burning, ignoring the pain slicing through my body. The corridor stretches endlessly until I see it—an opening ahead. Moonlight spills through.

    

    Freedom.

    

    I burst outside, gasping as cold air hits my lungs. Trees surround me. A forest. Dark and endless. The moon hangs low and full, bathing everything in silver light.

    

    I run.

    

    Branches tear at my arms. Roots snag my feet. I stumble, catch myself, keep going. I don’t think. I don’t look back.

    

    I don’t dare to. Every instinct in my body screams that if I turn around, if I hesitate even for a second, whatever is chasing me will close the distance and it will be over.

    

    My lungs burn. My chest aches with every breath. Cold air slices through my throat, sharp and unforgiving, but I welcome it—proof that I’m still alive, still moving.

    

    The forest blurs around me. Branches whip against my arms and face, sharp enough to sting, but I don’t slow down. The ground is uneven, roots rising like traps beneath the leaves. I stumble, catch myself, stumble again.

    

    Don’t stop.

    

    My heartbeat is deafening, pounding so hard it feels like it might tear out of my chest. The only sounds are my ragged breathing and the thud of my bare feet against the frozen earth.

    

    I don’t hear footsteps behind me anymore.

    

    That terrifies me more than if I did.

    

    The forest feels wrong—too quiet, too aware. The moonlight filters through the trees in fractured patterns, painting the ground in silver and shadow. My breath fogs in front of me, each exhale a fragile cloud that vanishes as quickly as it appears.

    

    I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know how long I’ve been running. Time stretches and folds in on itself, meaningless.

    

    My legs start to shake. Fatigue creeps in, heavy and relentless. My vision swims at the edges, dark spots flickering in and out like dying stars.

    

    Just a little farther.

    

    I push through a dense patch of trees, branches snapping under my hands, and burst into a small clearing. I slow despite myself, spinning in a desperate circle, searching for… something. A road. A light. Anything.

    

    There’s nothing.

    

    Only trees. Endless trees.

    

    My chest tightens painfully. Panic surges, hot and suffocating. I stagger forward, my steps uneven now, my strength slipping through my fingers like water.

    

    That’s when I feel it.

    

    Not a sound. Not a touch.

    

    A presence.

    

    The hair on the back of my neck rises. Every nerve in my body goes rigid, screaming at me to move—but my feet refuse to obey.

    

    Slowly, I turn.

    

    At the edge of the clearing, where the shadows gather thickest, something stands.

    

    Someone.

    

    A dark figure, tall and unmoving, wrapped in shadow so deep it seems to swallow the moonlight itself. I can’t make out a face. I can’t even tell if it’s looking at me. But I know.

    

    It is.

    

    My breath catches painfully in my throat.

    

    “Please,” I whisper again, the word barely more than air.

    

    The figure doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. It simply exists, heavy and inevitable, like the forest itself has decided to take shape.

    

    I take a step back. Then another.

    

    My heel catches on something unseen, and the world tilts violently. I fall hard, the impact knocking the air from my lungs. Pain blooms across my back, sharp and dizzying.

    

    I try to scramble up, but my arms feel weak, unresponsive. My body doesn’t listen anymore.

    

    The dark figure moves.

    

    Not fast. Not slow.

    

    Just close enough.

    

    My vision blurs, the edges darkening as if the night itself is closing in. The cold seeps deeper now, wrapping around me like a heavy blanket. My heartbeat stutters, then pounds erratically, uneven and frantic.

    

    I want to scream. I want to fight.

    

    But exhaustion crashes over me all at once, crushing and absolute. My eyelids flutter despite my efforts to keep them open.

    

    The last thing I see is the figure looming closer, its shape bending into the moonlight—still faceless, still silent.

    

    And then—

    

    Darkness takes me.