SCARLETT
Zayden’s fist pounded the door again, the sound like a violent drumbeat that echoed off the walls and thudded in my chest. It was desperate, wild.
“Dammit!” he snarled, trying the knob again like something might’ve changed. “Vincent!”
Nothing.
The intercom had gone silent, but it was worse that way. Like a monster had spoken and was now just waiting. Watching.
The air felt thick—too heavy to breathe in. My lungs tightened. My skin prickled. I could feel Vincent’s presence, even in the silence. A malevolence that lingered.
I clutched the duffel bag tighter, my knuckles white, fingers trembling. My heartbeat raced wildly in my chest, not from fear alone—but from something deeper. A strange pressure, a tightness blooming in my lower belly.
And then… pain.
It started small. A
