Page 76 of Fallen Heir

But if I was here… and they weren’t…

The pain flared again, sharp and white-hot, stealing the breath from my lungs. I felt myself slipping, consciousness unraveling thread by thread. And when the darkness crept in this time, thicker and heavier than before, I didn’t even try to resist.

I sank into it.

And the world vanished around me.

A car door slammed.

Then another creaked open.

Before I had time to register where we were, a sharp yank to my scalp sent a scream rocketing through my body—muffled by the gag, swallowed by the wind. My head snapped back and my body followed, dragged by a fistful of hair until I hit the ground with a thud that rattled my bones.

Gravel bit into my knees. I couldn’t stand.

“Get up,” Bruce snapped. “I’m not fucking carrying you inside.”

I tried. My legs trembled beneath me, barely able to hold my weight. Every muscle screamed. My wrists were still bound. I turned slightly, just enough to see a sliver of his boot stepping closer—and then I was airborne again.

He grabbed my arm, yanked me upright. A yelp tore from my throat as he shoved me forward. My feet tangled, and I nearly went down again, but I caught myself—barely.

The light was blinding.

After so long in the dark, the sun felt violent. Hot. Brutal. My vision pulsed, washed out with white. I blinked hard, eyes stinging, but it didn’t help. The brightness only made me nauseous.

I wanted to run.

God, I wanted to run.

But my body wouldn’t move the way I needed it to. I was empty. Hollowed out. My muscles didn’t obey commands anymore. I stumbled forward as Bruce pushed me again, harder this time, and I tripped over the threshold of a door I hadn’t even seen.

The temperature dropped instantly.

Cold air rushed up to meet me as we stepped into the shadow. The metal building swallowed the sunlight, and my blurred vision made it impossible to make out details. Everything inside was darker than it should’ve been—too quiet. Too still.

And then the smell hit me.

I gagged.

The stench of urine clung to the walls, soaked into the floor. It was thick. Stale. Sour. There was no mistaking it. It smelled like fear—like desperation and decay. I blinked again, trying to force my eyes to adjust.

Shapes sharpened.

The walls were rusted. The windows—if there were any—were blacked out or sealed shut. And in the corner of the room, lying against a cracked concrete floor, was a single mattress. If you could call it that.

It was stained. Dark. Sticky. Old.

Blood. And not just a drop or two.

A large, dried patch stretched across one side like a memory too stubborn to fade. The edges crusted, brownish-red and soaked deep into the foam. I couldn’t breathe.

Something terrible happened here.

Someone had been here before me.

And judging by the state of the room, the silence, and that smell—they didn’t leave on their own.

"Not like that little penthouse you had back there, huh?" Bruce said, voice thick with amusement. “All that marble and glass. So clean. Sosafe.”