The darkness in the maintenance closet was absolute, a thick, suffocating velvet that smelled of industrial floor wax, stale air, and the sharp, metallic tang of my own skyrocketing terror. My heart wasn't just beating; it was thundering against my ribs, a trapped bird frantic to escape its cage. The heavy hand remained clamped over my mouth, pressing my lips painfully against my teeth.
I struggled, my heels scuffing against the concrete floor, my tote bag sliding down my arm until it hit the ground with a muffled thud. Just as I prepared to sink my teeth into the palm of my captor, a voice sliced through the dark—low, jagged, and familiar.
"Shhhh. It’s me. Don’t scream, Sarah. Please."
The hand vanished. I gasped, drawing in a lungful of the stagnant air, my knees buckling for a split
