Amelia’s POV
Consciousness returned in fragments: cold concrete under my cheek, the sour taste of adhesive on my lips, wrists burning where zip-ties had already cut into skin. My head throbbed—dull, rhythmic, like someone had used it for batting practice. The chloroform lingered in my lungs, making every breath feel thick and wrong.
I didn’t panic.
I counted.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.
The room was small—maybe ten by twelve. Damp. Windowless. Single bulb swinging from a frayed cord overhead, throwing weak yellow light across cracked walls and a stained mattress in the corner. Heavy metal door. No handle on this side. One small vent high up, too small for escape, too high to reach even if I could stand.
I tested my bonds. Wrists zip-tied behind my back, ankles bound together.
