The door rattled on its hinges, but it didn't open.
For a second, there was only silence — heavy, ugly silence that pressed down on us like a weight.
Then a voice —
slimy, mocking — slithered through the crack in the door:
"Keep it down, lovebirds,"
"Or next time... we won't be so polite."
I froze.
Jason's jaw clenched so hard I thought he might break his teeth. His fingers tightened around the scrap of metal in his hand.
The footsteps faded, slow and lazy, as if the man on the other side didn't have a care in the world. As if he knew exactly how powerless we were.
Jason didn't move for a long time.
Neither did I.
We just breathed — broken, shallow breaths that didn't feel like they could ever be enough.
And then Jason turned to me, eyes burning.
"We have to get out of here," he said lowly.