I had no idea how long the darkness had owned me. Time doesn’t mean much when your head is a kaleidoscope of fever dreams and sand. I could still taste the grit of the Jaisalmer desert on my tongue—vivid, golden particles forming a tornado that never ended. Then came the memories of the cold sand against my cheek, the monster’s breath, and the heavy, rhythmic thrum of the helicopter. Everything had moved with a sickening, blurred speed that made me doubt my own consciousness.

  I’d been awake for two days. Or at least, some part of me had.

  The paralysis dart had turned my body into a statue of meat and bone, but my mind was a trapped bird fluttering against a cage. I was a passenger in my own skin. I couldn’t see, and I couldn't hear, but the darkness wasn't empty. My friends were there, dumped in the shadows like discarded luggage. I knew it because of the pressure—the hard, pointed edge of a woman's heel was pressed firmly against the side of my knee. It was a cold, unmoving weight. Rekha? Lila? I didn't know. I just knew that if I could have screamed, I would have.

  Slowly, the world began to bleed back in through my nose.

  The air didn't smell like the desert anymore. It smelled of ozone, chlorine, and the sharp, biting odor of cold metallic flooring. I tried to command my eyelids to twitch, to flutter, to give me even a sliver of light, but they were lead. I waited, my heart a dull thud in my chest, praying for the chemicals to wear off.

  Then came the sound. Screeeee-clack.

  A heavy metallic door slid open. I held my breath, listening for footsteps, for a voice, for anything. Nothing. Just the hum of a distant machine and the heavy, suffocating silence of a tomb.

  Suddenly, a white-hot sting lanced into the side of my neck.

  It felt like a long, thick needle being driven home by a carpenter. A rush of dizzying, chemical heat flooded my brain, traveling through my veins like liquid fire. My eyelids didn't just open; they shot open, snapping back with a force that made my vision swim. My heart went from a dull thud to a frantic, mile-a-minute gallop.

  Everything was a white, fluorescent blur. My body felt like it was glowing with a fever. As the world slowly came into focus, I realized someone was looming over me.

  It wasn't a face. Not a human one, anyway.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  A skull stared back at me—a pitch-black mask, matte and hollow-eyed, looking like a grim reaper that had stepped out of a nightmare. The silhouette was massive, broad-shouldered, reminding me of the bouncer from the helicopter, but this man felt different. He felt like a shadow that had learned how to breathe.

  I tried to snap my head sideways. My friends. Where are they? The thought screamed in my head, but the room was empty. They were gone. I was lying in a box of polished metal and blinding white lights, surrounded by racks of medical equipment—glass tubes, chrome monitors, and wicked-looking tools I didn't have a name for.

  Before a single word could escape my raw throat, the skull-faced man moved. He didn't ask permission. He reached down, grabbed me by the waist, and hoisted me up as easily as a man picking up a pillow. He slung me over his shoulder, my stomach pressing against his hard, armored back.

  My limbs were wet noodles. I couldn't fight. I couldn't even groan.

  He moved with a predatory, silent grace. Suddenly, he lurched sideways, pressing himself—and me—flat against a cold metal wall. The jerk was so sudden my head cracked against the paneling. Crack. A dull, sickening thud. Stars exploded in my vision, but I didn't go under. I stayed awake, my teeth gritted, as the sound of boots echoed from around the corner.

  "Do you know what those new captives are here for?" a voice asked. It sounded bored, casual.

  "Shhh, idiot!" a second voice hissed. "We are not supposed to talk abou—"

  The man carrying me didn't wait for the sentence to finish. His hand blurred toward his thigh, plucking something from a holster. There was a faint hiss of air, a wet, heavy thwack, and then the sound of something collapsing. Thud-slump. Then a metallic creak as a body slid down the wall.

  My blood turned to ice. This wasn't a rescue by the authorities. This man was a ghost, a killer who had turned the hallway into a graveyard in three seconds. Who is he? An enemy? Something worse? And where the hell are the others?

  The questions were a swarm of bees in my skull. I felt my fingers twitch—my motor control was returning, a slow, tingly burn in my nerves. I thought about fighting, but the man’s grip was like an iron vice.

  Then, he spoke. The voice was heavy, coarse, and rusted, like a machine that hadn't been oiled in a decade.

  "Hey, kiddo. Stop pretending."

  I froze.

  "I know you’re awake," the voice rumbled against my ribs. "And don't worry. I won't hurt you. I’m here to rescue you."

  Trust? Trust was a foreign language. I didn't speak it anymore.

  "Please... leave me," I croaked, the words feeling like broken glass in my throat. "My friends. They’re here. I can't go without them. Please."

  The man didn't respond. He didn't even slow down.

  "Listen, kiddo. Things are complicated here. I’m not doing this for you, and I’m sure as hell not doing it for my health. I found you by chance, and I don't have a spare second to go hunting for your friends. Now shut up and hold on tight."

  He turned a corner and kicked open a door. The smell hit me instantly—stale urine and industrial bleach. A men's bathroom. He didn't head for a window or a vent. He walked straight toward a massive, dark hole that had been torn into the floor in the corner of the room.

  Before I could even draw breath to scream, he stepped into the void.