The first thing I realized was that the silence was wrong.
It wasn't the heavy, velvet-lined silence of the Sterling mansion, where the only sound was the distant hum of the climate control or the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock. This silence was hollow. It was cold. It smelled of ozone, stagnant water, and the metallic tang of old rust.
I tried to draw a breath, but my lungs felt like they were filled with wet wool. My head throbbed with a rhythmic, sickening pulse that made the darkness behind my eyelids dance with jagged shards of white light. I tried to lift my hand to rub my eyes, but I couldn't move.
The realization hit me like a physical blow, sharper than the headache. My arms were pulled back, my wrists burning against the bite of thick plastic zip ties. My ankles were
