Page 123 of Fallen Empire
I tried to scream, but it caught in my throat.
I kicked. Fought. Like a child throwing a tantrum in the arms of someone three times their size.
Then came the cloth.
Pressed hard over my mouth.
Soaked. Sharp. Smothering.
I held my breath, desperate to stop the fumes from settling in. But it was useless.
The world was already tilting.
The sky spun sideways.
And then—
Nothing.
I woke to darkness.
Not the natural kind that settled with dusk or dim lighting, but the kind that felt deliberate.
My mouth was dry, like cotton had been packed inside it. My head throbbed, dull and heavy behind my eyes, and my limbs ached with the weighted sluggishness of something unnatural.
I’d been drugged. I knew it instinctively. The way my skin tingled, how the world tilted slightly every time I blinked. My stomach churned with every breath.
The room was cold. Not freezing, but industrial. Uncomfortable in a way that felt intentional. I shifted, slowly, trying to sit up, but my arms barely responded. My body felt like it belonged to someone else.
The floor and walls were concrete. Thick, gray, and unwelcoming. There were no windows. Just the flickering of a cheap floor lamp in the corner, casting long shadows.
And the smell…
It hit me slow at first, then all at once. Dust, old wood, and something sharp underneath it all. Bleach. Not overwhelming, but recent.
Whatever this place was used for, they’d cleaned it. Bleached it. Covered the scent of whatever came before me. This wasn’t like Bruce’s chaos. This was Aleksei’s version of control.
Sterile. Clinical.
Prepared.
I wasn’t in a hospital. I wasn’t in someone’s home. I was in a holding space.
A place meant to contain someone, not comfort them.
The realization settled hard in my chest, knocking loose the last of the fog in my head. I forced myself to sit up fully, my movements clumsy but focused now.
There were no restraints. Not yet. But that didn’t mean I was free. He didn’t bring me here to kill me, at least not immediately. That meant he wanted something.
From me. From Jaxson. From Savannah.
God, Savannah.
If he got to her—if this was some sick extension of whatever the hell Bruce started—
No. I couldn’t go there. Not yet.
I pressed a hand to the floor, grounding myself. I wasn’t screaming. I wasn’t begging. I was still breathing, and that meant I had time. Not much, but enough. Enough to figure out why I was here… and maybe—just maybe—how to survive it.
