Cheryl’s POV
The room was dimly lit—too dim to tell if the red smears on the floor were wine or something far worse.
The air smelled of rusted metal, sweat, and something faintly floral—like someone had tried to mask the decay with cheap perfume, or maybe it was my own perfume turned cheap from the deathliness of this place. A single lightbulb swung lazily from the ceiling above me, casting long, flickering shadows that danced across the concrete walls like ghosts.
My hands were still untied and free when my eyes popped again to the strangeness of this place, but they still ached from the pressure of the zip ties. My legs were numb, folded underneath me on the cold stone floor. I didn’t know how long I’d been here—minutes, hours—it all bled together in this silent, chilling purgatory.
