Page 69 of Final Vendetta

I struggled to push myself upright, my movements sluggish and disoriented. I touched a hand to my forehead, feeling something sticky. The floor beneath me was cold and roughagainst my bare feet, my shoes having been removed. At least I still had my clothes, but they did little to protect me against the chill that seeped into my skin.

Squinting in the darkness, I tried to make out any details in my surroundings. The space was small and cramped, the walls shrouded in shadow. There were no windows, only a faint, eerie glow coming from beneath the door.

I carefully reached out with my arms, searching for something familiar.

There was nothing. No furniture. No debris. Just emptiness.

The air was cooler near the far corner, a slight draft brushing against my skin. It was the only sensation to cling to, a whisper of the outside world.

What kind of place was this? A basement? It couldn’t be. There weren’t any basements in California. A storage room maybe? A warehouse? With no light or sound, it was impossible to know.

The air felt heavy, oppressive, like it was pressing down on me. A subtle smell lingered, sharp and acrid. It reminded me of bleach, but not clean — something that had tried and failed to mask something worse.

Trembling, I continued searching the space, my fingers grazing the wall. It was smooth but cold to the touch, like stone or concrete. I moved slowly, searching for anything — a light switch, a door, a clue.

Then my fingers caught on something.

Grooves.

I froze, my heart hammering as I traced the indentations with my fingertips. They were small but deep, carved into the wall. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Then a space. Another cluster. And another.

Tally marks.

A chill raced down my spine as I kept moving, my hand following the lines etched into the surface. They went on and on, row after row. My breath hitched as I realized how many there were. Dozens. Maybe hundreds.

Someone had been keeping track of something.

Time, maybe?

I pulled my hand away, wiping my palm against my pants as if I could erase the sensation of those grooves from my skin. But the knowledge of them lingered, crawling beneath the surface.

Who had been here before me?

And where were they now?

The thought made my stomach churn, bile rising in my throat.

Then I heard it — quiet at first, like an echo in a long hallway.

Footsteps.

They grew steadily louder and closer with each passing second.

Pressing myself into the corner, I ran my hand along the wall again, searching frantically for something,anything, that could help me. A weapon. A crack to slip through. A hidden door.

There was nothing except the cold, unyielding wall at my back.

I squeezed my eyes shut, as if that would will the footsteps away. Would make me wake up from this nightmare.

But nothing would.

When they stopped outside my door, my entire body went rigid, every muscle pulled tight, as if that might somehow make me invisible. I bit my lip, willing myself not to make a sound, not even to breathe. My body trembled, and I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to stay still.

My ears strained to catch the faintest sound in the sudden silence, my heart beating so loudly I was sure whoever stood on the other side of the door could hear it.

Then a new sound cut through.

Metal clinking against metal.

---