I ran through the forest, breath ragged, chest heaving, and every heartbeat thunderous in my ears.
The trees loomed like skeletal giants, black against the faint moonlight, clawing at me with their twisted limbs. The ground beneath me was uneven and cruel—gnarled roots, jagged stones, and thorny underbrush tore into my bare feet with every desperate step. But I didn't stop. I couldn't stop. Pain meant I was alive, and as long as I kept running, there was still a chance.
I didn't know how long I'd been running. Minutes? Hours? Days? Time had dissolved into instinct, into pure survival. Hunger hollowed me from the inside out. My stomach had stopped growling hours ago, replaced by a dull ache that spread through my spine and legs. My skin was clammy with sweat, though the night was cold, and every breath burned my throat raw.
The moonlight flickered through the trees in patches, casting silver webs that shimmered on the forest floor. It wasn't enough to see clearly—but just enough to move forward. That faint light was both a blessing and a curse: it guided my way, but it also revealed me.
Somewhere behind me, he was still coming. I didn't have to see him to know it. I felt him—the way a rabbit feels the shadow of the hawk above before the talons strike. He didn't yell. He didn't taunt. He didn't need to. His silence was worse. His silence meant control. Confidence. Patience.
I dared to glance back.
There he was. Moving fast. Too fast. His boots crushed the underbrush with the steady rhythm of a man who knew he'd catch me eventually. The trees and brambles didn't slow him. His machete glinted under the moonlight, swinging lightly at his side. He didn't run like a man chasing something. He ran like a man reclaiming what he believed was already his.
Panic clawed up my throat.
I picked up speed, feet screaming, lungs rattling. Blood smeared across the leaves in a trail I couldn't hide. Every inch of me ached. My nightgown—once pale and clean—was now soaked with sweat, torn at the sides, and clung to my skin like wet paper.
Branches whipped against my cheeks. My arms were scratched and raw. I didn't even know which direction I was going anymore. I just knew I had to move. Forward. Away.
And still, he came.
I thought of my father. His quiet strength. His laugh.
I thought of Josh—his messy hair, his crooked smile. Would he know I was gone? Would he look for me? Or had they already told him I'd run away?
I tried to push the thoughts out of my mind. They made my legs weaker. My focus blurred.
A tree root snagged my foot and I stumbled forward, hitting the ground hard. Pain lanced through my knees and elbows. I tasted dirt, blood, leaves. I scrambled to my feet, coughing, heart screaming in protest.
Behind me, I heard it: a low whistle, like wind through a blade. A hiss through the air.
And in my head, the countdown began—
Ten seconds to contact.
Nine.
Eight.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two—
The machete struck.
It slammed into my side—just beneath the ribs—with a force that ripped a scream from deep within me. The pain was instant, white-hot, all-consuming. It lit up every nerve like fire. I crumpled, my legs folding beneath me like wet paper. The air was punched from my lungs. My mouth moved, but no sound came.
I landed hard, face-first into the forest floor. I couldn't even cry. Couldn't scream again. Just small, sharp gasps—like a dying animal.
My hand shot to my side. Blood. Warm. Sticky. Pouring fast.
I was going to die here.
No one knew where I was. No one was coming.
Everything started to spin. The trees blurred. The stars vanished. Even the pain dulled—replaced by something worse: cold.
I tried to crawl, dragging myself inches forward, nails digging into the soil. But my arms gave out. My vision was shrinking, tunneling. My heartbeat—once furious—now stuttered.
One beat.
A pause.
A weaker thump.
Then nothing.
I thought I heard him approach. Slow, deliberate steps through the brush. He wasn't in a rush now. He knew I wasn't going anywhere. The machete hung at his side, still wet. He crouched beside me, his shadow swallowing the light.
Then, blackness.
---
I don't remember what happened after that. Not the pain. Not being lifted. Not being carried. It all vanished into darkness.
But I do remember waking up.
---
The first breath was sharp, involuntary. I jolted upright—at least, I tried to. My body didn't respond.
Pain shot through my side. My arms were bound tightly behind me. My legs, too—strapped to the legs of the chair I was sitting in. My skin burned everywhere the rope touched.
My eyes adjusted slowly. The room was dark, lit by a single swinging lightbulb that buzzed overhead. Shadows danced along the cracked concrete walls. There were no windows. No doors that I could see. Just pipes. Rusted metal. Damp floors. The smell of mildew, rot… and something faintly metallic. Blood.
My breathing quickened.
I looked down.
My side was wrapped in a makeshift bandage—rough cloth stained with dark, dried blood. Someone had stopped the bleeding, barely. The machete hadn't killed me. Not yet.
Footsteps echoed somewhere close.
Then he stepped into view.
He dragged a metal chair with him and placed it across from mine. He sat down slowly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, watching me like I was something pinned under glass. His scruffy beard was damp with sweat. The scar along his jaw was more visible now. And his eyes—those cold, predator eyes—never blinked.
He smiled. Just a little. Just enough to make my stomach twist.
"Well, well…" he said softly, like we were old friends. "Evelyn. You're finally awake."
My throat closed.
He knew my name.
I didn't speak. Couldn't. My mouth was dry. My lips cracked. But my mind was screaming.
How did he know me?
Why me?
What did he want?
But the worst question was the one I didn't dare answer—because somewhere, deep down, I already knew:
Who sent him?