It smells like metal and moss — sharp, earthy, and wrong. Like something ancient and rotting underneath something sacred. The kind of scent that clings to your lungs and makes every breath feel like it doesn't belong to you.
The floor beneath me is stone — cold, slick, like it was carved out of some forgotten cave. My cheek is pressed against it, and when I try to move, pain blooms across my side, sharp and unforgiving. I groan, breath catching, ribs screaming with every shallow inhale.
My wrists are tied — not with rope, not really. It looks like rope at first glance, but it moves. It tightens when I breathe. It pulses, slow and steady, like it has a heartbeat of its own. Like it's alive. Like it knows who I am.
I manage to sit up — barely — but my head spins and everything tilts. Ther
