Page 115 of Inevitable Endings
Grief.
Adrenaline.
Love.
It all lives inside of me, begging to be felt all at once.
“Do you think he’s still alive?” I ask, the words escaping before I can stop them.
Dominik doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, his eyes fixed on the road. His jaw clenches, and for a moment, I see a flicker of something in his eyes, a reflection of the same fear that’s wrapped itself around my chest. Fear for what we’ll find. Fear for what it might mean. Fear for him, for me, for all of us.
Instead of a nod or a shake of his head, he reaches across the console, offering me one of his hands. His fingers brush minewith an unspoken understanding, a silent promise. His grip tightens, just for a moment, and I feel it deep in my bones—he is scared too.
Chapter 51
What Hides in the Darkest Corners of Room Seven
Isabella
We have been driving for nearly three hours.
The air grows thicker the further we drive, swallowed by the emptiness that stretches around us like an abyss. No other vehicles. No lights. No signs of life. Just the endless dark of the road, swallowing the car’s headlights, leaving only the cold hum of the engine to fill the silence. The trees loom, twisted and dark, like blackened fingers reaching from the edges of the world.
The world outside the car is dead.
No movement. Not even the wind stirs here. There’s a heaviness to the stillness, a quiet that suffocates you, wrapping itself around your lungs. The silence is thick, but it’s not peaceful. It’s oppressive. The sort of silence that makes your skin crawl. It feels like the whole place is holding its breath, waiting for something, or maybe someone, to shatter it.
The occasional flicker of a distant light pierces the dark, but it’s fleeting, like the last memory of a dying star. I don’t even know if it’s real. Everything feels warped here. The edges of the world don’t quite line up, the ground too uneven, the air too still. It’s as though this place never really existed in the first place, like we’re driving through some warped version of reality that’s beenabandoned and left to rot.
As we drive deeper into the heart of it, the road seems to stretch endlessly, each turn a curve into more and more emptiness. The buildings, if you can even call them that, are shells, ghostly remnants of places that were once alive, now hollowed out and decaying. Windows are cracked, some shattered entirely, revealing nothing but dark, empty rooms. There are no signs of life here, no movement, no sounds. Just the broken husks of forgotten structures.
And then I see it.
A small, derelict motel standing on the edge of the road. Its sign flickers faintly in the dark, neon buzzing like a dying insect trapped in a jar. The letters are half-eaten by rust, barely legible. But it’s the only thing in sight, the only thing that seems to be still standing—hanging on by some cruel, forgotten thread.
‘‘Look, there.’’
The car comes to a slow, deliberate halt in front of the motel. The flickering neon sign above sputters weakly, its faint buzzing like the dying hum of an insect caught in a jar. The sign is barely readable, rust eating away at the letters, but it’s the only thing standing—barely. The only thing that hasn’t been claimed by the dark, desolate night.
It looks like something out of a nightmare. A place long forgotten, left to decay. The exterior sags and buckles under the weight of years spent abandoned. The windows are shattered, cracked like old bones, revealing only dark, hollow rooms.
I don’t want to step out of this car. I don’t want to be anywhere near this forsaken place, but I have no choice. I know we’ve come too far now to turn back.
Dominik shifts beside me, his eyes scanning the surroundings with that familiar, sharp focus. His face is unreadable, as always, but there’s an unmistakable tension in the air. He reaches into the backseat, pulling out the black bag with a swift, practicedmotion. His fingers move with precision as he unzips it, revealing the cold metal of a gun, its surface gleaming in the faint light. He checks it, makes sure it’s ready.
He doesn’t look at me as he hands me the bulletproof vest. My fingers are stiff as I take it, and I strap it over my hoodie, the weight of it heavy on my chest. It feels unnatural, but I force myself to adjust it tightly, securing it in place. The vest doesn’t make me feel safer. It only feels like a fragile barrier against the unknown, something that might be ripped away the moment we step into the darkness.
Next comes a knife. It’s cold, the steel almost biting into my palm as I grip it. I slide it into the sheath at my side, the weight of it a reminder of how fragile we are, how thin the line is between life and death out here.
I’m grateful for the knife, I wouldn’t even know how to properly use a gun. Yet I know that if something were to happen, I wouldn’t fight; I would always rather run.
Dominik looks at me, his expression hard, unwavering. He doesn’t speak, but his hands move, quick and deliberate. He points at me, then at himself, his fingers moving in the fluid sign language that’s become his unspoken communication. But I understand him.
Stay behind me. Never stray from me.
I nod, a quick, sharp movement. The adrenaline is already beginning to pulse through my veins, and my breath is shallow. My heart is pounding in my chest, but I don’t let myself hesitate. The air feels thick, suffocating. The world outside is dark, heavy, and full of things that shouldn’t be.
The door creaks as it opens, and the cold night air slams into me. The weight of the silence presses in, wrapping around my throat, making it hard to breathe. Dominik steps out first, his figure disappearing into the shadows as he moves toward the motel. There’s no wasted movement in him, no hesitation. He’sa predator, calm and ready, every step calculated, every sense alert.
