Chapter 5
MORGAN
Sunlight filtered through the cracks in the boarded window, weak and gray, casting long shadows across the concrete floor.
I woke with a start, my body aching from the cot's thin mattress, the events of last night crashing back like a wave.
The alley, the struggle, this godforsaken room.
I sat up slowly, every muscle protesting, my palm throbbing from the cut I'd gotten grabbing that glass shard.
The air was colder now, biting into my skin, and the silence pressed in, unbroken except for the distant drip of water somewhere in the warehouse beyond.
He wasn't here. The man, the psycho who'd dragged me in, was gone.
Hope surged, sharp and immediate, cutting through the fog of exhaustion.
Maybe he'd stepped out, left a gap. This could be my chance.
I swung my legs off the cot, feet hitting the cold floor, and stood, wincing as pain shot through my side from where he'd pinned me.
The room looked even worse in the daylight, grime coating everything, dust motes floating in the pale beams. The walls were cracked, patches of mold blooming in the corners where water had seeped in over who knew how many rainy seasons.
The cot was little more than a metal frame with a stained blanket, no pillow, no comfort.
Scattered around were signs of a life scraped together: empty cans of food stacked in one corner, their labels faded and peeling; a pile of clothes, dark and threadbare, smelling faintly of sweat and rain; a few books, spines broken, pages yellowed, stacked haphazardly near the mirror.
The mirror itself was fractured, reflecting back distorted pieces of the room, and beside it, the bucket of water sat stagnant, a thin film on the surface.
This wasn't a home; it was a burrow, the kind of place someone crawled into to rot away from the world.
How long had he been here? Months? Years?
The isolation hung in the air, thick and suffocating, making my skin crawl.
I scanned for anything useful: a loose nail in the floorboards, maybe, or something heavy to swing.
The glass shards from last night were still there, scattered near the table.
I pocketed the largest one, careful of the edges, feeling a little less helpless with it in my hand.
The door was the priority. Barred last night, but maybe he'd forgotten to lock it properly when he left.
I moved toward it quietly, heart pounding, listening for any sound outside.
Nothing. The bolt was heavy, rusted, but it slid back with a grating scrape that echoed too loudly in the stillness.
I paused, breath held, then gripped the handle and pulled.
The door creaked open a fraction, revealing a sliver of the larger warehouse beyond.
Freedom, or at least a start. I stepped forward, and then the world exploded.
Something hit me, hard and invisible, slamming into my chest like a wall of force that shouldn't exist. I flew backward, crashing onto the floor, the impact jarring up my spine, knocking the air from my lungs.
Pain bloomed across my ribs, sharp and disorienting, and I lay there gasping, staring at the doorway in shock.
There was nothing there. No barrier, no glass, no hand reaching out.
Just empty space, the door still ajar, mocking me.
What the hell? I pushed up on my elbows, wincing, my mind racing.
Concussion, maybe, from the fight last night.
I'd hit my head at some point, hadn't I?
Or drugs—he could have slipped me something while I slept, making everything feel wrong, hallucinatory.
I shook my head, trying to clear it, but the pain felt real, the bruise forming on my skin too tangible for illusion.
I got to my feet, unsteady, and approached again, slower this time, eyes fixed on the frame.
There, etched into the wood, faint but visible in the light: strange carvings, lines and symbols that looked like they'd been cut with a knife, irregular and old, like graffiti from someone unhinged.
They didn't mean anything to me, but something about them set my nerves on edge.
I reached out tentatively, fingers brushing the air in front of the threshold.
Resistance, solid and unyielding, pushing back against my hand like an invisible sheet of glass.
I pressed harder, and it shoved me away, not gently, sending me stumbling back a step.
This wasn't possible. Doors didn't do this.
Maybe a trick, some kind of magnetic field or setup he'd rigged, hidden tech I couldn't see.
Or I was losing it, cracking under the stress, my mind inventing barriers because the real one—him—was too much to handle.
Anger boiled up, overriding the fear. Screw this.
I wasn't imagining it, and I wasn't staying trapped by nothing.
I backed up to the far wall, the room's length giving me space, and took a deep breath.
If force was what it took, I'd give it. I ran, full speed, shoulder lowered like I'd seen in movies, convinced that whatever this was had to give under real impact.
The doorway rushed toward me, open and empty, and then it hit.
Harder this time, a brutal shove that lifted me off my feet and hurled me back, slamming me into the opposite wall with enough force to crack the rotting plaster.
Dust rained down, the impact rattling my teeth, pain exploding through my back and skull.
I slid to the floor in a heap, vision blurring, a groan escaping as I tried to breathe through the agony.
My shoulder throbbed, possibly dislocated, and warmth trickled from a cut on my forehead where I'd hit.
Humiliation burned, mixing with the panic, because I couldn't fight this, couldn't even see it.
What kind of nightmare was I in? Tears pricked, angry and unbidden, but I blinked them back, refusing to break.
A rough voice broke the silence, abused and low, from the doorway. "Are you done yet?"