Page 67 of Massacre
Silence crashed down, punctuated only by the fading thud of Morpheus’ boots receding into nothingness. I pressed my palms to the cold tile, willing my breath to steady, but each inhale dragged the stench deeper into me—iron and rot and the bitter perfume of abandonment. The fluorescent bulb above me hummed, a brittle warning, its light trembling as if uncertain it could bear witness to what came next.
I staggered to my feet, every muscle trembling. The room was emptier than hope: four walls, a slatted cot nailed to one side, and a smear of something dark on the far corner. My mind raced, cataloguing exits, weaknesses—anything. The window, if it ever was one, had been bricked over long ago, the mortar rough and unyielding.
A low murmur slithered through the vents—voices, laughter, or perhaps just memory gnawing at the silence. I paced, hugging my arms to my chest, the word “pet” still echoing in my ears, slicing through thought with cruel precision.
Was he really dead?
The thought throbbed behind my eyes, dissonant, impossible.
Massacre—gone? My gut twisted, torn between grief and the cold, prickling certainty that Morpheus’ games were never so simple.
I pressed my ear to the door, heart stuttering. Nothing but the distant drip of water and the faint, metallic scrape of something dragging across concrete. My eyelids fluttered shut for a heartbeat, searching for strength in the darkness behind my eyes.
A sudden clang jolted me back—a tray shoved through a slot I hadn’t noticed before. Stale bread and a plastic cup of water. Sustenance, or a grim reminder that I was expected to last.
I looked up at the ceiling, tracing the cracks above, wondering how long until someone noticed I was missing.
How long until help came—or until I would have to save myself.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Amber
Time was inconsequential, but I figured at least three days had passed since Morpheus threw me into this room. I only assumed that because, for the seventh time since I’d been in this room, someone shoved another tray under the door.
My hands hovered over the bread, torn by hunger and wariness. Each bite would be a gamble; I forced myself to eat, gnawing through the crust while my mind gnawed at the hours ahead. The water tasted faintly of plastic and something older, like it had been waiting in the pipes for years to meet me.
Time lost meaning. Shadows shifted across the walls, the relentless hum above sharpening into a chorus with every passing moment. I counted breaths, then cracks, then heartbeats, desperate for any rhythm to claim as my own.
Eventually, I crouched by the cot, feeling for loose slats, hidden spaces, clues left by those before me or perhaps left for me alone. Nothing but splinters and dust.
Somewhere beyond the walls, the sound of laughter rose and fell—a jagged symphony that made my skin crawl. I pressed my forehead to the chilled brick, closing my eyes against the ache. They wanted me afraid. They wanted me waiting, unraveling.
But fear was a knife, sharpest when wielded by the desperate.
I rose, slow and deliberate, shoulders squared against the weight of the world pressing in from all sides. If the door would not open, then I would find another way. If the slot was too small, perhaps the hinges were not. I examined every seam, every bolt, memorizing weakness like a prayer, when Iheard footsteps pounding my way. Rushing over to the corner, I crouched down, trying to hide myself within the shadows just as someone flung the door wide open.
Light knifed into the cell, far too bright for eyes starved of sun. Instinct pressed me flatter into the bricks, as a figure crossed the threshold.
A moment’s hush, thick enough to choke on. Then the figure stepped forward, boots scraping on concrete as he bent down and roughly grabbed my arm, jerking me to my feet.
The pain in my arm was sudden, electric—a tether anchoring me to this moment. I bit back a cry, refusing to offer him the satisfaction of weakness. His grip tightened, impatience radiating from him. I tried to read the edge in his stance, the twist of his posture, searching for humanity, for cruelty, for anything to brace against.
He dragged me into the corridor, and the world outside the cell was a tunnel carved from stone and flickering fluorescence. My feet stumbled, aching from days of pacing. I squinted, blinking away tears as the light fractured the edges of my vision.
“Walk,” came his voice—hoarse, deliberate, neither a plea nor a threat. Just an order, as unyielding as the walls.
So I walked. My heart hammered a desperate cadence, echoing in my ears. The hallway branched and looped, door after door, some sealed and silent, others echoed with muffled sobs or distant clatters. My captor’s hand was a vise around my arm, steering me through the labyrinth, never slowing, never faltering.
I tried to memorize the turns, the length between each harsh light, the stains on the floor—anything that might draw a map inside my head. Each detail was precious, a lifeline for an escape yet unimagined.
At last, we stopped before a bolted metal door. The figure released me with a shove, and I staggered, catching myselfagainst the cold steel. A key rattled in the lock. Somewhere inside, hope flickered—small, defiant, refusing to be snuffed out.
The door swung open. I braced myself, ready for anything.
“AMBER!”
My head snapped up as I saw my father standing not far from me.
