My feet stop.
Footsteps come up behind me.
Before I can turn, a hand clamps over my mouth. Another arm hooks around my chest, hard enough to squeeze all the air out of my lungs, and I’m dragged backward before I can even process what’s happening. The soles of my shoes scrape uselessly against the concrete as panic flares hot in my gut.
Something sharp presses into the side of my neck.
For half a second, my brain supplies possibilities. Needle, injector, tranq—
The world tilts violently, like someone kicked the legs out from under reality itself.
My vision blurs.
My limbs go heavy.
I try to fight it. I really do. As my attacker spins me around, I dig my fingers into the arm holding me, nails scraping fabric or skin or—
My thoughts scatter and fracture and slip out of sequence.
The last thing I see is Bellrose Institute looming ahead of me, all glass and light and order, perfectly indifferent to the sealing of my fate as I’m hauled away.
Then everything collapses.
I wake to nothing.No sound, no light. Just a dull, throbbing ache behind my eyes and the unmistakable sensation that my body is about two seconds behind my brain. For a moment, I think I might still be dreaming. Or dead. Or maybe even hungover without the fun part.
Then I try to move.
My arm twitches, heavy as wet concrete, and my fingers brush fabric. Sheets. Not even nice ones. Rough and scratchy. I inhale sharply, the air cool and stale, and that’s when the panic clicks fully into place.
Okay. So not dead.
I force my eyes open.
The room swims into focus slowly, like my vision is buffering. Gray walls. Gray floor. Bare. No windows. No furniture besides the small, uncomfortable bed I’m lying on that I suspect is bolted to the floor and a toilet in the corner that looks more like a hole in the ground. The only light comes from a single, dim bulb recessed in the ceiling. A room in a basementmaybe.
Minimalistic chic. With a flare ofabduction.
My mouth tastes like cotton and regret. My tongue is thick in my mouth, uncooperative. Whatever they injected me with seems to be very much a fan of hanging around.
“Cool,” I croak to the empty room, feeling as though I swallowed a dozen razorblades. “This is fine.”
Sitting up is harder than it should be. The room tilts left, then right, then settles just long enough for me to swing my legs over the side of the bed and plant my feet on the floor. The cold seeps straight through the soles of my socks.
Who the fuck stole my shoes?
They must’ve known I’d strangle them with the laces.
I breathe in and out. Slow.
No restraints. That’s…something, I guess.
I stand, wobble, then steady myself with a hand against the wall. It’s cold and smooth, no seams or cracks. Whoever designed this room really committed to theno personalityaesthetic.
My gaze moves to the single door on the other side of the room. It’s solid metal with no handle on my side, just a narrow seam. At eye level, there’s a small square panel that might be a camera.
I walk over and knock. Light at first. Polite.
“Hello?” My voice echoes back at me, still too weak. “Hi. I seem to be misplaced.”
