Page 31

The metal cuffs bite into my wrists, each step forward sending a sharp jolt of pain up my arms. Campus security officers flank me on either side, their grip on my elbows unnecessarily tight as they guide me across the courtyard of my apartment building.

The night air is cool against my heated skin, stars dotting the sky above us like distant, indifferent witnesses.

My eyes dart around frantically, searching for Thatcher.

He has to be here somewhere, watching his handiwork unfold.

The bastard couldn’t have orchestrated all this and not stayed to see the show.

Every shadow, every parked car becomes suspect as we cross the parking lot toward a sleek black sedan that screams unmarked police vehicle.

“This is bullshit,” I spit out, my voice breaking despite my attempt to sound fierce. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

Neither of the men respond, their faces set in careful masks of indifference as they continue marching me forward. The officer on my right tightens his grip until I wince, the message clear: shut up.

Ten more steps to the car, and still no sign of Thatcher. My heart hammers in my chest, a panicked rhythm that makes it hard to breathe. Where is he? Did he really just make the call and walk away? The thought makes the betrayal sting even more sharply.

“At least tell me what I’m being arrested for,” I try again, digging in my heels as we reach the car. The officer behind me sighs—a sound of irritation rather than sympathy—and reaches for the door handle.

That’s when I feel it—cold, hard metal pressing against the small of my back, unmistakable even through my sweatshirt.

A gun.

My blood turns to ice in my veins, and I freeze completely, fear crawling up my throat like bile.

“Not another word,” a voice whispers, close to my ear, unfamiliar and chilling. “Not a sound, or I pull the trigger. Understand?”

I manage a jerky nod, my lungs constricting with panic. This isn’t right. These aren’t cops. Cops don’t threaten to shoot you in the back in the middle of a campus parking lot. What the hell is happening?

“Good girl,” the voice says, and something dark is pulled over my head, blinding me completely. The fabric is thick and smells of something chemical, making my nose itch and my eyes water. “Now get in the car. Nice and easy.”

Hands shove me forward, and I stumble, unable to catch myself with my wrists bound behind me. I fall awkwardly onto a leather seat, pain shooting through my shoulder as it connects with something hard. The door slams shut beside me, and I hear the distinct click of a lock engaging.

My chest heaves as I struggle to catch my breath through the fabric of the blindfold.

The car dips slightly as more people get in, doors shutting, engines starting.

I strain my ears, desperate to catch any hint of Thatcher’s voice, any clue that he’s behind this, that this is just some fucked-up lesson he’s teaching me.

Nothing.

Just the steady hum of the engine as the car pulls away, taking me God knows where.

Where the hell is Thatcher? The question circles in my mind, a desperate mantra as the car turns and accelerates. Did he know they’d do this? Did he set me up? Was this his plan all along—not to turn me in to the police but to... what? What is this?

The silence in the car is oppressive, pressing in on me from all sides. No music playing, no conversation, not even the squawk of a police radio to confirm my suspicions. Just the steady thrum of tires on asphalt and the sound of my own ragged breathing echoing in my ears.

I try to track our movements, to make mental notes of the turns we take, but it’s futile.

With no visual cues and my sense of direction scrambled by fear, everything blurs together.

Left, right, straight for a long stretch, then more turns.

Minutes stretch into what feels like hours, each second dragging painfully as I sit rigid with terror.

The gun is no longer pressed against my back, but its phantom pressure lingers, a silent threat keeping me compliant. My hands have gone numb from the cuffs, pins and needles crawling up my forearms. I flex my fingers, trying to keep the blood flowing, and wince as the metal edges bite deeper.

Just when I think I can’t take the silence and darkness any longer, the car slows and makes a final turn. Gravel crunches beneath the tires, the sound distinct and somehow ominous. The engine cuts off, and for a moment, there’s nothing but the quiet ticking of the cooling metal.

Then the door beside me opens, and rough hands grab my arm, yanking me out into the night air. I stumble, my legs stiff from sitting, and nearly fall to my knees before someone catches me.

“Walk,” comes the command, a different voice from before, deeper and more authoritative.

“Where are we?” I manage, my voice small and shaky.

No answer. Just another rough shove forward, guiding me across what feels like loose gravel, then onto smoother ground—concrete, maybe. The air around us has changed, cooler and somehow earthy, like we’re no longer in the city.

A door creaks open, and I’m pushed through, the atmosphere shifting again—mustier, enclosed. Footsteps echo, suggesting high ceilings and hard surfaces. My heart picks up its frantic pace as I’m led forward, the hands on my arms never loosening their grip.

And then stairs. I feel the edge of the first step with my foot, tentatively moving down, the hands on my arms now guiding rather than pushing.

One step, two, three... down we go, into what must be a basement or lower level.

The temperature drops several degrees, goosebumps rising on my exposed skin.

It’s cold down here. Damp. The smell changes too—concrete and something else, something metallic and familiar that makes my stomach clench with instinctive fear.

Blood.

We come to a stop, and I’m pushed down onto what feels like a metal chair, the seat cold even through my jeans. The cuffs on my wrists are removed, but before I can even think to fight or run, new restraints are fastened around my wrists and ankles, binding me to the chair.

And still, no one speaks. No explanation, no demands, not even a threat. Just the sound of movement around me, footsteps on concrete, the occasional metallic click or scrape.

A basement. I’m in a basement somewhere, tied to a chair, blindfolded, surrounded by people who aren’t cops and who aren’t Thatcher. A fresh wave of fear washes over me, but I clamp down on it, refusing to let it overwhelm me.

This has to be Thatcher’s doing. It has to be. Maybe some sick test or twisted lesson. Maybe he’s even here, watching, waiting to see if I’ll break. Well, I won’t give him the satisfaction.

I straighten my back, ignoring the ache in my shoulders, and set my jaw. If this is some game, I’ll play it out. Whatever’s happening, whatever’s coming, I’ll face it.

Time passes—minutes, maybe, or hours. It’s impossible to tell in the darkness behind the blindfold. My body aches from tension and the awkward position, but I don’t slump, don’t complain. If Thatcher is watching, I want him to see that I’m not afraid.

Even though I am.

Finally, fingers at the back of my head, untying the blindfold. It falls away, and I blink against even the dim light, my eyes watering as they adjust after so long in darkness.

I expect to see Thatcher’s face, that infuriating smirk, those intense eyes.

But there’s nothing familiar here at all.

The room around me is concrete—walls, floor, ceiling—with a single bulb hanging overhead, casting harsh shadows in the corners.

And standing before me, arranged in a loose semicircle, are men in masks.

Not the simple black masks like at the Halloween party, but elaborate things that cover their entire faces, each one different and somehow more terrifying than the last.

My mouth goes dry. This isn’t Thatcher. This isn’t some game or lesson or twisted attempt to make me his. This is something else entirely, something much worse.

One steps forward—taller than the others, wearing a mask of deep crimson that catches the light in a way that makes it look wet, like freshly spilled blood. His posture suggests authority, the way he holds himself separate from the others, the way they seem to defer to his presence.

“Your name.” The voice from behind the red mask is calm, almost pleasant, which somehow makes it more terrifying.

I swallow hard, throat clicking audibly in the silence. “Rhea,” I whisper, then clear my throat and say it again, stronger. “Rhea Winters.”

“Rhea,” he repeats, as if testing the sound of it. “Do you know that you’re going to burn in hell for what you’ve done, Rhea?”

My heart skips a beat, then resumes at double speed. They know. These people, whoever they are, know about Jack. But how? Did Thatcher tell them? Is this some vigilante group?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, the lie falling from my lips automatically, a desperate attempt at self-preservation.

The man in the red mask tilts his head, the gesture almost birdlike in its abruptness.

“Allow me to paint a clearer picture for you,” he says, stepping closer.

The smell of expensive cologne reaches me—sandalwood and something sharper.

“This is a torture chamber. One built specifically for people who lie.” He gestures to the concrete walls around us, to the shadows where unidentifiable objects loom.

“I’ll let that first lie slide. But the next won’t be so easily forgiven. ”

I feel the blood drain from my face, my extremities going cold with fear. This is real. This is happening. These people are going to hurt me if I don’t tell them what they want to know.

“What did you do, Rhea?” The red mask asks, his voice soft but insistent.

I lick my lips, buying time, trying to decide how much to admit, how much they already know. “Something... something I shouldn’t have,” I finally manage, the words barely audible.