Just when I think I can’t take the silence and darkness any longer, the car slows and makes a final turn. Gravel crunches beneath the tires, the sound distinct and somehow ominous. The engine cuts off, and for a moment, there’s nothing but the quiet ticking of the cooling metal.
Then the door beside me opens, and rough hands grab my arm, yanking me out into the night air. I stumble, my legs stiff from sitting, and nearly fall to my knees before someone catches me.
“Walk,” comes the command, a different voice from before, deeper and more authoritative.
“Where are we?” I manage, my voice small and shaky.
No answer. Just another rough shove forward, guiding me across what feels like loose gravel, then onto smoother ground—concrete, maybe. The air around us has changed, cooler and somehow earthy, like we’re no longer in the city.
A door creaks open, and I’m pushed through, the atmosphere shifting again—mustier, enclosed. Footsteps echo, suggesting high ceilings and hard surfaces. My heart picks up its frantic pace as I’m led forward, the hands on my arms never loosening their grip.
And then stairs. I feel the edge of the first step with my foot, tentatively moving down, the hands on my arms now guiding rather than pushing. One step, two, three... down we go, into what must be a basement or lower level. The temperature drops several degrees, goosebumps rising on my exposed skin.
It’s cold down here. Damp. The smell changes too—concrete and something else, something metallic and familiar that makes my stomach clench with instinctive fear.
Blood.
We come to a stop, and I’m pushed down onto what feels like a metal chair, the seat cold even through my jeans. The cuffs on my wrists are removed, but before I can even think to fight or run, new restraints are fastened around my wrists and ankles, binding me to the chair.
And still, no one speaks. No explanation, no demands, not even a threat. Just the sound of movement around me, footsteps on concrete, the occasional metallic click or scrape.
A basement. I’m in a basement somewhere, tied to a chair, blindfolded, surrounded by people who aren’t cops and who aren’t Thatcher. A fresh wave of fear washes over me, but I clamp down on it, refusing to let it overwhelm me.
This has to be Thatcher’s doing. It has to be. Maybe some sick test or twisted lesson. Maybe he’s even here, watching, waiting to see if I’ll break. Well, I won’t give him the satisfaction.
I straighten my back, ignoring the ache in my shoulders, and set my jaw. If this is some game, I’ll play it out. Whatever’s happening, whatever’s coming, I’ll face it.
Time passes—minutes, maybe, or hours. It’s impossible to tell in the darkness behind the blindfold. My body aches from tension and the awkward position, but I don’t slump, don’t complain. If Thatcher is watching, I want him to see that I’m not afraid.
Even though I am.
Finally, fingers at the back of my head, untying the blindfold. It falls away, and I blink against even the dim light, my eyes watering as they adjust after so long in darkness.
I expect to see Thatcher’s face, that infuriating smirk, those intense eyes.
But there’s nothing familiar here at all.
The room around me is concrete—walls, floor, ceiling—with a single bulb hanging overhead, casting harsh shadows in the corners. And standing before me, arranged in a loose semicircle, are men in masks. Not the simple black masks like at the Halloween party, but elaborate things that cover their entire faces, each one different and somehow more terrifying than the last.
My mouth goes dry. This isn’t Thatcher. This isn’t some game or lesson or twisted attempt to make me his. This is something else entirely, something much worse.
One steps forward—taller than the others, wearing a mask of deep crimson that catches the light in a way that makes it lookwet, like freshly spilled blood. His posture suggests authority, the way he holds himself separate from the others, the way they seem to defer to his presence.
“Your name.” The voice from behind the red mask is calm, almost pleasant, which somehow makes it more terrifying.
I swallow hard, throat clicking audibly in the silence. “Rhea,” I whisper, then clear my throat and say it again, stronger. “Rhea Winters.”
“Rhea,” he repeats, as if testing the sound of it. “Do you know that you’re going to burn in hell for what you’ve done, Rhea?”
My heart skips a beat, then resumes at double speed. They know. These people, whoever they are, know about Jack. But how? Did Thatcher tell them? Is this some vigilante group?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, the lie falling from my lips automatically, a desperate attempt at self-preservation.
The man in the red mask tilts his head, the gesture almost birdlike in its abruptness. “Allow me to paint a clearer picture for you,” he says, stepping closer. The smell of expensive cologne reaches me—sandalwood and something sharper. “This is a torture chamber. One built specifically for people who lie.” He gestures to the concrete walls around us, to the shadows where unidentifiable objects loom. “I’ll let that first lie slide. But the next won’t be so easily forgiven.”
I feel the blood drain from my face, my extremities going cold with fear. This is real. This is happening. These people are going to hurt me if I don’t tell them what they want to know.
“What did you do, Rhea?” The red mask asks, his voice soft but insistent.