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 flood roared, a relentless tide of blood and rust swallowing the shed's remains, its jagged wood sinking into the dark. I thrashed, the water clawing my throat, its weight a shroud of 13 years—13 screams, 13 failures—pulling me under. The necklace dangled from my wrist, its heart pendant glinting—or drowning—a faint light in the chaos. Raisa's voice echoed, sharp and fading, "With us?"—her form lost to the surge, her green-hazel eyes a memory swallowed by the tide.

"No!" I bellowed, my voice raw, shredding the flood's howl as I kicked, my legs burning, the current coiling—or snapping—around me. The water surged, a wave crashing—or splitting—its surface alive with faces—Mara's hollow stare, Toren's stern snarl, Lira's fleeting cry—dragging me down, their whispers a chorus, "You promised, you broke us, you left." My chest heaved, air slipping away, and I roared, "I'll escape—I'll find her—I won't break!"

The tide twisted, hurling me up—or deeper—wood splintering past me, the shed's last gasp—or a new cage—brushing my hands. I grabbed it—or clawed air—the flood spinning, a vortex of rust and shadow, its grip loosening—or tightening. "Raisa!" I shouted, my voice a spear through the dark, the necklace swinging as I pulled, my arms straining, the current buckling—or fighting—beneath my will. Her laughter broke through—or drowned—faint, fierce, "Find me? You're sinking, Lukas—still sinking!"

The water surged, a geyser erupting—or collapsing—tossing me against stone—or sky—the flood's roar fading—or swelling—as light pierced the tide, gray and thin, a crack in the abyss. I lunged, my hands clawing—or grasping—stone, slick and cold, the necklace catching—or guiding—my wrist pulling free. The current fought, its rust-stained fingers raking my legs, but I kicked, my voice breaking, "Not yet—not without you!"

The stone held—or crumbled—a ledge jutting from the flood, its edge sharp, glinting with 13. I hauled myself up, water streaming from my skin—or soul—the tide lapping below, its faces swirling—Mara, Toren, Lira—then her, Raisa, her scar vivid, her eyes alive—or empty—staring up, her voice a whisper, "Escape? You can't outrun us." I staggered, my breath ragged, gripping the ledge—or her gaze—and rasped, "I'll outrun it—I'll pull you out—watch me!"

The flood trembled—or laughed—the ledge shaking as water rose again—or fell—its surface rippling, her form flickering beneath—or above—her hand breaking the tide—or sinking—her whisper sharp, "Pull me? You're trembling—still you." I smirked, shaky but fierce, the necklace glinting—or pulsing—as I reached down—or up—my voice steady, "For you—always for you," the flood surging, the ledge cracking, leaving me teetering, her touch—or its absence—slipping through my grasp.

The Current’s Breaking Grasp