Coolos3

Trapped in a locked concrete room with no memory, Lukas awakens to a chilling note: “You have 24 hours to confess.” A raspy voice from a rusted speaker delivers cryptic clues every hour, each one unraveling a dark past he can’t fully grasp—blood-stained hands, a river’s edge, and the faint echo of a scream. Amid the chaos of his fractured mind, one name shines through the fog: Raisa, a woman tied to him by love, betrayal, or something far worse. As glimpses of her warmth clash with visions of violence, Lukas struggles to piece together the truth. Is he a victim, a killer, or a pawn in a game he doesn’t understand? With time slipping away, the line between guilt and innocence blurs, and the final confession may leave more questions than answers—about Raisa, about himself, and about the door that waits beyond the 24th hour.

Echoes of 24 Hours

The shed loomed over the cracked field, its warped wood trembling in the mist, the number 13 glinting on its ajar door like a scar carved by forgotten years. The echoes of Mara, Toren, and Lira drifted behind me, their whispers—"You came back," "Too late," "You forgot"—a tide pressing against my spine, urging me forward—or pulling me back. I clutched the necklace, its heart pendant warm in my fist, a pulse against the silence where Raisa's voice had faded—"Find me"—her reflection lost to the tear-stained pool. My boots crunched the earth, my breath ragged, and I rasped, "I'm coming, Raisa—I'll find you."

The mist coiled, thick and alive, as I stepped closer, the shed's shadow stretching—or shrinking—its frame swaying as if breathing. The air buzzed, sharp and cold, the flood's hum—or the speaker's—threading beneath the ground, a heartbeat I couldn't escape. I pushed the door, its hinges groaning—or screaming—wood splintering under my touch, and darkness spilled out, heavy with the scent of rain and rot. "Raisa?" I called, my voice a blade slicing the haze, but the silence answered—or mocked—its weight crushing my chest.

Inside, the shed was vast—or small—its walls bending, wet and slick, water dripping from unseen cracks, pooling at my feet. The lantern's faint glow—or its memory—flickered ahead, casting shadows that danced—or lunged—across the wood. I stepped in, the floor creaking—or giving—a tide of memory surging: rain lashing the village, Raisa's screams, my hands turning the key, locking her in. My heart slammed, the necklace swinging, and I whispered, "I locked you here—I left you—but I'm back."

A sound—soft, jagged—cut through, her laughter—or a sob—echoing from the dark. "Back?" Raisa's voice murmured, sharp, alive, threading through the walls—or my mind. I spun, her form flickering at the edge of sight, her green-hazel eyes glinting, her scar vivid against pale skin, her presence trembling between flesh and shadow. "You're here," I said, my voice breaking, lunging forward—or stumbling—my hands grasping air, or her, her touch warm, then cold.

"Here?" she echoed, her tone playful, pained, her form steadying—or dissolving—before me. "You locked me, Lukas—you left me—and time bled here, 13 years of it." My chest caved, the 13 burning—13 years, 13 steps, 13 screams—and I choked, "I didn't know—I ran—I'm sorry—" Her hand brushed my cheek—or the air—her touch piercing, and she whispered, "Sorry? You're trembling again—still breaking."

The shed shuddered, water rising—or falling—its walls cracking, revealing carvings—Don't forget me—etched deep, her words from the dark. "I won't forget," I said, my voice steadying, fierce, "I'll carry you—out of here, out of this—" The floor split, a tide bursting up, not water, but blood—or rust—swirling, reflecting her face, younger, screaming, then still. "Raisa!" I roared, plunging my hands in—or out—her reflection rippling, her voice echoing, "Carry me? You'll drown in me first."

The walls groaned, the carvings bleeding—or glowing—the shed warping as the flood surged, not from below, but above, rain crashing through the roof—or sky—its howl a chorus of the drowned. Her form flickered, her eyes meeting mine, alive—or empty—her whisper sharp, "Find me? You're losing me," as the blood-tide rose, the shed trembled, leaving me clutching the necklace, teetering in a flood of time I couldn't hold.

The Shed Where Time Bleeds