Page 222 of Irreversible

I fall…

I wake to a soft, unsteady sway.

The faint hum of what sounds like an engine is a distant murmur in my ears. The air smells of saltwater and something else. Stale, a confined space. My head pounds, a dull throb gnawing at the perimeter of my consciousness.

Groaning, I press my fingertips to my temples.

My limbs feel heavy, uncoordinated. I blink rapidly, trying to focus, but the world tilts, spinning in and out of clarity.

Slowly, my vision clears, revealing the plush interior of what I think is a…boat.

A large one.

A yacht?

Polished wood gleams around me as soft light filters through a porthole, hinting at the turquoise swirl of the ocean outside.

I sit up too fast and everything slopes, tipping sideways. My stomach churns with the remnants of whatever drugs were injected into me, and I scratch at the pinprick left behind.

The walls are closing in, the air thickening.

My pulse quickens as nausea threatens.

I try to stand, but my legs wobble like a newborn deer, and I crash back onto the white leather couch. Trembling, I push a section of hair off my face, trying to orient myself. The drug is still clinging to my bloodstream, slowing everything. I can’t think straight.

I have to move. Run. Escape.

A door opens behind me.

I don’t need to look to know who it is, as his presence fills the space before I even hear his footsteps.

“Ah, you’re awake.” His voice is a sinister echo. Paralyzing.

I whip around, ignoring the dizzying wave of vertigo. I lock eyes with him—cold, cruel, multicolored eyes. The world outside the porthole is a blur of blue, and I realize, with a sickening lurch in my stomach, that the boat is moving.

Not just moving; it’s cutting through the water, picking up speed.

He steps closer, a suffocating weight in the small cabin. My eyes catch sight of the purple umbrella twirling in his hand.

“I thought I’d take this as a souvenir,” he says, admiring the prop like a coveted prize. “It is my favorite color.”

I brace myself against the edge of the couch, trying to stand. The boat sways gently at first, then surges forward, the hum of the engine vibrating through the floorboards as water churns against the hull.

I feel it.

We’re moving farther and farther from shore.

“You should rest, my dear.” Stepping toward me, The Timekeeper pulls a set of handcuffs from his waistband. “Those drugs will still be dancing in your system for a while yet. You’re in no condition to be running around.”

I eye the glinting metal. “Maybe it’s time to find another hobby,” I rasp, my voice shaking. “This tired brand of kidnapping is getting old.”

“I do enjoy crocheting,” he deadpans. “Keeps the muse sharp.”

“Stay away from me.”

“Oh, honey, not everything is aboutyou.But I do need you to stay put.”

My eyes veer toward the exit, and that’s when he lunges for me.

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