The first thing Emma registered was the taste of blood.
Copper filled her mouth, sharp and metallic, as she bit down on her split lip. Her wrists burned—coarse rope sawed into her skin with every desperate twist. The room was a tomb: concrete walls, no windows, a single flickering bulb casting jagged shadows. A storage closet, maybe. Or a cellar.
How did I get here?
Fragments of memory flashed—the shortcut through the parking lot, the screech of tires, a gloved hand clamping over her mouth. Then darkness.
Now, her ankles were bound to the legs of a metal chair, her arms tied behind her back. A whimper rose in her throat, but she choked it down. No. No sounds. He might be listening.
She strained her ears. Distant footsteps. A door creaking somewhere above. Then silence.
Time to move.
Emma tested the ropes again. Too tight. No slack. Her eyes darted around the room—anything could be a weapon if she used it right. A rusted nail jutted from a broken shelf two feet away. Too far to reach with her hands tied, but if she could tip the chair…
She rocked sideways, teeth gritted. The chair legs screeched against concrete. Too loud. She froze, listening.
No reaction.
Another shift. Another scrape. Her shoulder slammed into the ground, pain exploding down her side. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs, but she’d done it—the nail was within reach.
Twisting her wrists, she hooked the rope against the nail’s jagged edge. Back and forth, back and forth, fibers snapping one by one. Sweat dripped into her eyes. Faster. Faster.
A sound upstairs. A door slamming.
Her pulse spiked. He’s coming.
With a final jerk, the rope gave way. Her hands flew free. She scrambled to untie her ankles, fingers trembling. The footsteps grew louder—descending stairs now, heavy and deliberate.
She had seconds.
The last knot loosened. Emma lunged for the shelf, snapping off a splintered wooden plank. Not much, but it was sharp.
The door handle turned.
She pressed herself against the wall, weapon raised.
The door swung open.