Sam
The door opens again maybe an hour later.
I hear it before I see it—the lock clicking, the hinges creaking.
I keep my eyes closed, my breathing slow and even, pretending I'm still out.
But then a voice cuts through the silence.
"You can stop pretending."
It's calm. Measured. Not threatening, exactly—just certain.
I open my eyes.
A man stands in the doorway, backlit by the hallway light. He's older—maybe late forties, early fifties—with graying hair and a lean
build. He's wearing jeans and a plain black shirt, nothing flashy. Nothing that would make him stand out in a crowd.
He looks... ordinary.
That's what makes my stomach turn.
He steps into the room and closes the door behind him, the lock clicking back into place. Then he pulls a metal folding chair from
the corner a
