A low, persistent hum vibrated through the stale, recycled air. Luna’s eyelids fluttered open—slow and reluctant—like curtains pulled back against a merciless dawn. The room lurched into focus: dim, concrete walls mottled with peeling paint and damp stains. A single, flickering overhead bulb cast jagged shadows that slithered across the cracked linoleum floor.

She lay sprawled on a thin mattress that sagged in defeat, its threadbare patchwork poking through in places.

Her body felt foreign—limp, heavy, as if gravity had forgotten how to lift her limbs. Every breath scraped raw in her throat, shallow and ragged like a forgotten tune played on broken strings.

Sound tore through the silence—a distant drip, drip, drip—water slinking from an unseen leak. The sharp scent of mildew mixed with something metallic—damp iron, cold and biting.

Her fingers twitched, dragging across rough fabric.

Cold. Emergency blanket? No—something thicker. A coat? She couldn’t tell.

The skin on her hands was cracked, pale, like old paper left too long in rain.

Confusion rolled over her like a wave tightening in the chest. A kaleidoscope of black fragments flickered behind her eyes, stinging—yet stubbornly refusing to form into shapes or names.

Ten fingers, two legs, a slow-burning ache behind her temples.

But who was she?

A stuttering panic reached for her, claws scraping the inside of her ribcage. Her heart pounded uneven rhythm—one beat hammering, the next hesitant—as if begging for more memory.

“No… no,” she whispered, voice hoarse and barely a breath.

She swung her legs off the mattress, feet hitting the cold floor—sharp and real.

The room—bare—held no window, only a heavy door with battered paint and a rusted lock.

She stood, knees unsteady, scanning the emptiness.

A chair shoved against the far wall.

A metal table scarred with graffiti.

And her coat, crumpled in a corner—but no clues.

Her hands trembled as she moved toward the door, fingers brushing the chipped wood.

A whisper caught at her ear—a shard of sound—

Footsteps?

She froze.

Silence.

Only the faint heartbeat of dripping water.

She pressed her ear to the door and caught the faintest scrape—shoes sliding, hesitant.

Her breath hitched. She stepped back, every nerve alight with raw, unformed fear.

The lock clicked.

A sliver of chill traced her spine.

Before the door could creak open, a harsh, gravelly voice punctured the stillness.

“You awake, finally.”

Luna spun—eyes wide, glassy—but her throat seized. No words came.

The door swung slow, revealing a tall figure standing in the half-light.

Malik Corvin—sharp jaw, cold eyes like broken glass glinting under the neon glow beyond the doorway. His presence sucked the warmth from the air, sending a tremor shaking through her bones. He wore a crooked smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’ve been waiting,” he said—voice a velvet blade.

She took a trembling step backward.

“Where am I?” Her voice cracked, scarce and unfamiliar even to her own ears.

Malik’s gaze hardened, darkening.

“Lost, aren’t you?”

His smile faded into a hard line.

“Let’s see how much you remember.”

He moved closer, and Luna’s mind reeled—fragments flashed unbidden:

A scream.

A flash of gunmetal.

Whispers in rain.

But no answers—only the jagged edges tearing at the surface of her skull.

Her fingers moved almost unknowingly into her coat pocket.

Cold metal. Hard shapes.

A folded scrap of paper—an unfamiliar weight.

With shaking hands, she pulled it out and unfolded the note.

Sharp black ink scrawled words that sliced cold through the fog in her mind:

“They’re watching. You cannot hide. Trust no one.”

Her breath hitched.

The room seemed to shrink.

Behind Malik’s unreadable gaze, a single thought thundered in her chest—she was hunted. And the shadows swallowing her past were closing in fast.

The door clicked shut behind Malik.

No flicker of mercy in his eyes.

Only the suffocating silence that promised one thing:

The night wasn’t done with her yet.