Jason stirred beside me with a low groan. His eyes fluttered open, confused and clouded, the dim light catching on the sweat beading his brow. He sat up abruptly, wincing as his head throbbed.
"Where the hell are we?" he muttered, voice hoarse.
I sat up slowly, the ache in my side blooming fresh. "I don't know," I whispered, watching him scan the room.
It was bare. Cement walls, a bucket of water in the corner, a steel door with no handle from our side, and a small square vent humming quietly above. No windows. No camera—at least none visible.
Jason stumbled to his feet, still shaky. "Job. That bastard—he drugged us."
He moved fast, fists pounding the door. "Open this damn thing! You hear me?!"
I flinched at the sound. "Jason—"
He ignored me, yelling louder. "You think this'll work? You think I won't find you?!"
Then it happened.
A soft click. Followed by a low, mechanical whine from the ceiling. And then—pain.
A high-pitched tone sliced through the room, like metal grinding against glass, so sharp I had to cover my ears. Jason staggered back, grabbing his head.
We both sank to the floor.
And then the voice came—calm, calculated, disembodied.
"The louder you get, the worse it becomes."