(LANCE )
The fishing shack groaned under the weight of the rising tide, wooden pilings creaking like old bones as dark water slapped rhythmically against them. The air inside was thick and heavy — a suffocating blend of damp rot, brine, gun oil, and the faint coppery trace of blood still drying on my clothes and Eliona’s skin. The single hanging bulb swayed gently, casting long, flickering shadows across the rough plank walls and turning every corner into something uncertain and threatening.
Eliona sat pressed tightly against my side on the worn, threadbare couch, her body no longer violently shaking but still tense with residual fear. Her fingers were laced with mine, gripping hard enough that I could feel her pulse racing against my palm. The faint metallic tang of fear-sweat clung to
