The Ninth Hour

The water climbed, relentless, a black tide swallowing the room inch by inch. It lapped at Raisa's chest now, her limp form cradled against me, the chain still binding her wrists to the rotting chair. The ceiling wept, threads of water raining from the widening crack, and the darkness pressed in, thick and alive, broken only by the faint shimmer of the fallen bulb, drowned in the pool. I held her tighter, her head against my shoulder, her breath—or its ghost—faint against my neck. "We're getting out," I whispered, a vow carved into the chaos.

The dripping had become a roar, a chorus of falling earth and rushing current, drowning my thoughts. The walls trembled, moss-streaked stone groaning under the weight of whatever lay above. I shifted, the water surging past my waist, cold claws sinking into my skin. The chair tilted, its legs buckling, and I caught her as it splintered, the chain clanking free from the wood but still locked around her wrists. Her weight pulled at me, fragile yet heavy, a burden I wouldn't let go.

I staggered toward the wooden door, the only way back—up the stairs, out of this tomb. The water fought me, a current now, tugging at my legs, and the door swayed, its warped frame buckling under the flood. I slammed my shoulder into it, once, twice, the hinges screaming as it gave. Beyond, the spiral stairs loomed, slick and steep, their mossy edges gleaming faintly in the dark. I hoisted Raisa higher, her arms limp over my shoulders, and stepped through, the water chasing us, lapping at the first step.

"Hold on," I said, my voice raw, though I wasn't sure she could hear. Her hair clung to my face, wet and tangled, and her skin—too cold, too pale—pressed against mine. I climbed, one hand gripping the key, the other steadying her, my feet slipping on the stone. The stairs spiraled tighter, the walls closing in, their rough surface scraping my arms as I pressed upward. Water followed, a black serpent coiling at my heels, rising faster than I could move.

A memory flickered—rain, her laughter, her hand in mine as we ran through a storm. "We'll make it," she'd said, her voice bright, her eyes daring me to believe. I'd believed then, hadn't I? Now, her silence mocked that hope, but I clung to it, step by step—ten, eleven, twelve—the 13 on the key burning in my mind. Thirteen steps. One more.

My foot hit the edge of the grate, the open hole back to the concrete room. I shoved Raisa through, her body sliding onto the floor, then pulled myself up, gasping as the water surged below, splashing my legs. The room was unchanged—gray, cold, the neon flickering—but the crack in the wall wept now too, a mirror to the flood below. I dragged Raisa away from the hole, her chained wrists clinking, and knelt beside her, brushing her hair from her face.

"Raisa," I said, soft, urgent, my hands cupping her cheeks. Her eyes fluttered, a faint twitch, but stayed closed. Her chest—did it rise? I pressed my ear to it, straining past the dripping, the hum of static from the speaker above. A beat—slow, faint—or was it mine, echoing through her? "Stay with me," I begged, my fingers tracing her scar, her lips, searching for life. She was here, solid, but fading, a thread slipping through my grasp.

The steel door loomed across the room, its warped edge glinting, the only way out. I stood, lifting her again, her weight heavier now, water dripping from her clothes, pooling beneath us. The key—bent, rusted—dangled in my hand. The speaker had said it fit more than one lock. I stumbled to the door, Raisa's head lolling against my chest, and jammed the key into the lock. It caught, grinding, but didn't turn. My heart sank. "No—no, come on!" I twisted harder, the metal screeching, my hands slipping with wet and blood.

The speaker crackled, its voice cutting through: "You can't take her with you." Rage flared, hot and bright. "She's mine!" I shouted, slamming my fist against the door. "I'm not leaving her!" The voice fell silent, but the dripping swelled, water seeping from the grate, the crack, a tide rising to claim us both. I turned the key again, desperate, and it clicked—once, twice—then gave. The lock released, the door shuddering open an inch.

I yanked it wide, the draft rushing in, cold and sharp, carrying the scent of earth and river. Beyond—a tunnel, narrow, its walls dripping, stretching into shadow. Freedom? A trap? I didn't care. I lifted Raisa, her chains rattling, and stepped through, the water at my ankles now, chasing us still. The tunnel sloped upward, the stone slick, and I moved fast, her breath—or its absence—spurring me on.

The ceiling lowered, forcing me to duck, Raisa's weight pressing me down. My legs burned, my lungs screamed, but I saw it—a faint glow ahead, pale and distant, a promise of air, of light. "We're almost there," I gasped, though she didn't answer. The water surged, a wave crashing at my knees, and I stumbled, catching myself against the wall. Her hand slipped, brushing my arm, and I froze—a twitch, a grip, faint but there.

"Raisa?" I whispered, turning her face to mine. Her eyes opened—barely, clouded—but they found me, green flecked with hazel, a spark in the dark. "Lukas," she mouthed, soundless, and my heart broke, mended, broke again. "I've got you," I said, tears blurring the glow ahead. I pushed on, the tunnel narrowing, the light growing, until my foot hit stone—a dead end.

No—a ladder, rusted rungs climbing to a hatch, the glow seeping through its edges. I shifted Raisa, her chains clanking, and climbed, one-handed, her body slung over my shoulder. The water roared below, rising fast, and the hatch loomed close. I shoved it with my free hand, the metal groaning, then bursting open. Light flooded in—gray, dim, but real—rain pattering down, the scent of wet earth washing over us.

I pulled us through, collapsing onto grass, Raisa beside me, the hatch slamming shut as water gurgled below. I held her, rain mixing with tears, and searched her face. Alive? Dead? Her eyes stayed closed now, her chest still, but her hand—her hand rested in mine, fingers curled, holding on.