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“Yeah, know the feeling.”
“I was mauled. You just had to work at a fucking smoothie shop.”
“I had to choke down fucking wheatgrass shots every shift.”
“Your skin cleared up,” the fake cop said as they turned to walk away from me.
The comment got him a punch in the shoulder from my fake employee before the door closed behind them, leaving me alone.
Alone was possibly the worst thing, left there to think of the things they’d said about waiting to take turns with me. And all the possible ways they could have meant that.
I couldn’t say how much time passed.
Minutes.
Hours.
It felt like half a lifetime.
Yet not nearly long enough as I heard footsteps approaching.
The boss they spoke of.
The man who was wicked enough to bring so many monsters to heel.
I just barely managed not to cry out as the door slid almost soundlessly open.
And there he was.
Not the boss.
Not the fake cop or the fake employee.
Not even Remy.
No.
No, it was Arty.
Of all people.
Somehow, he looked even more shocked to see me as I was to see him as he slipped inside, pressing a finger to his lips, telling me to be silent enough though, you know, the duct tape.
Moving into the room, he came toward me with, well, nothing.
No way to cut the tape.
No way to pick the locks.
But, at least, he did peel the tape from my lips.
“You need to go,” I hissed. “I can’t have anyone else getting hurt because of me. They’re going to be coming back,” I added. “What are you even doing he—“ I started, cutting off when we both heard the footsteps coming.
Not just one set, either.
At least two.
It was too late.
