33 | ☕Atlas Hunts for Anya While Shes Trying Not to Die ☕ #2
Jax stepped out first, cracking his neck as he scanned the area. His usual easy going demeanour was gone, replaced by the kind of cold focus that only came out when things were about to get ugly. He looked over at Atlas, his eyes hard. "Ready to kick some doors down?"
Atlas nodded.
Kieran and Rowan were right behind him, Kieran's sharp eyes already taking in every detail of the warehouse's exterior, no doubt looking for weak points. Rowan, silent as ever, stayed close, his presence a calming constant in the chaos of Atlas's mind.
They reached the door—a rusty, battered thing barely hanging on its hinges—and Atlas didn't hesitate.
With a swift movement, he reached for the handle and yanked it open.
The inside was dark, the smell of mildew and old machinery thick in the air.
His eyes scanned the shadows, searching for any sign of movement.
Anya's breath caught as the door creaked open and the faint light of the hallway filtered into the room, like the lingering presence of a ghost.
The silence that followed was oppressive and full of tension, as if the air held its breath and waited.
Shadows stretched across the floor, forming unnatural shapes that seemed to dance with a life of their own.
Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat a warning, while adrenaline coursed through her veins and her fingers trembled with nervousness.
She glanced at the clock — time was passing faster than she had expected.
The figure that stepped inside was tall, broad-shouldered, and cloaked in darkness, the details of his face obscured by the low light. Her captor. The one who had taken her.
He didn't speak at first, just stood there in the doorway, his gaze shifting over her bound form. Anya's chest tightened, but she refused to let her fear show. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her panic.
She flexed her fingers again, testing the ropes, her mind working at full speed. The knots were tight, but the ropes weren't made to hold forever. She had to be careful. One wrong move, and he'd notice.
His footsteps echoed as he approached, each step slow, deliberate.
"Still trying to escape?" His voice was low, tinged with amusement. He stopped a few feet away, his dark eyes fixed on her, studying her every move.
Anya didn't respond. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of an answer. Her thoughts were far away, focused on the ropes, on her hands, on the door behind him.
She could do this. She had to.
He reached out to touch her chin, forcing her to look up at him, and Anya flinched involuntarily. His hand lingered there for a moment, as if savouring her discomfort.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, he revealed the dagger.
The blade gleamed in the dim light, its edge sharp and unforgiving as he pointed it at her right cheek.
The cold steel hovered just an inch away from her skin, and Anya could feel the icy presence of it, the danger so close she could almost taste it.
"You think you can outsmart me?" he muttered, almost to himself. "You're not the first one to try."
Anya gasped as the captor jerked his wrist again, the sharp blade of the dagger slicing through the air with a terrifying swiftness.
In an instant, she felt the honed sting of the metal against her skin.
Her cheek burned as the cut opened, the blood welling up in an instant, a crimson line staining her skin.
The captor took a step back, admiring his handiwork as he wiped the dagger across his sleeve. "You know, pain isn't just physical. It breaks you, makes you beg for mercy," he muttered, his voice cold, devoid of empathy.
Before Anya could even react, the captor's hand moved with terrifying precision.
The blade flashed again, this time slashing across her forehead.
Pain exploded in her vision, hot and searing, and she cried out, but the sound was swallowed by the room's oppressive silence.
Blood trickled down her face, mixing with the sweat that dotted her brow, as her head spun momentarily from the sudden rush of pain.
Her eyes snapped back to the captor, but there was no time to brace herself. He wasn't finished.
With a sadistic grin, the captor struck again.
This time, the blade sliced across her chest, deep and purposeful, sending another wave of pain surging through her.
The cut was wider, more jagged, the blood pooling around her mouth, stinging her as it mixed with her own sweat.
Anya clenched her jaw to stifle the scream building in her throat, her body instinctively jerking back, but the ropes still held her in place.
The captor took a slow step back, eyes locked onto her with a cruel satisfaction.
"Does it hurt?" he asked, his voice a mockery of sympathy, as though he truly cared for her pain.
He leaned in, close enough for her to feel the heat of his breath on her skin, his gaze never leaving her face as he assessed the damage he'd caused.
Anya's mind raced. Blood dripped down her neck, staining her shirt, but she couldn't focus on that. She had to focus on the one thing that could save her—freedom.
But before she could make a move, he struck again, this time bringing the blade down across her collarbone.
The cut was deep, and the pain exploded in a wave of shock and fire.
She gasped in shock, her whole body jerking forward as the blade tore through the flesh.
The blood flowed freely now, soaking her clothes, staining the ground beneath her.
Her breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, each one pulling more pain into her chest.
"Stop..." she said shakingly, but the words were barely a whisper, her body trembling from the overwhelming agony. Her vision blurred with tears as she fought to remain conscious, to fight the panic that threatened to overwhelm her.
He chuckled darkly, the sound cold and merciless. "You're too stubborn for your own good. But I'll break you, just like I did all the others."