Pain came first—a dull, throbbing ache that pulsed behind Jordan's eyes with each beat of his heart. The world returned to him in fragments: the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, the cold bite of metal against his wrists, the smell of damp concrete and cigarette smoke.
Jordan blinked slowly, his vision blurry and unfocused. A single light bulb hung from the ceiling, swaying almost imperceptibly, casting shifting shadows across the walls of what appeared to be a basement or cell. The movement made his stomach roll with nausea, and he swallowed hard against the urge to vomit.
"Focus," he muttered to himself, his voice rough as sandpaper. "Get it together."
He tried to move, only to find his hands bound tightly behind his back, secured with what felt like zip ties cutting into his skin
