The Shadow’s Grip

Al woke up somewhere wrong. 

His eyes snapped open. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. 

His head ached. His body felt wrong—slow, heavy. 

He tried to move—but his hands stuck to something. 

Al's breath hitched. 

He looked down. 

Blood. 

Smears of it on his fingers. Drying on his palms. 

His stomach lurched. He yanked his hands back, scrambling away. His shoes scraped against tile. 

Where the hell was he? 

He scanned the room—a breakroom. Office chairs. A vending machine. A half-eaten sandwich on the table. 

It looked normal. 

Except for the bloody handprint on the door. 

Al's breath shook. His mind raced. 

He reached for his phone. No new messages. No calls. 

Just one thing. 

A new video. 

Untitled. Timestamp: 3:47 AM. 

Al's hands shook. He hesitated—then pressed play. 

The screen flickered. 

Then—footage of himself. 

Standing exactly where he was now. 

But he wasn't alone. 

Another figure—slumped on the floor. Not moving. 

Al's breath caught. No. 

The version of him in the video stared at the camera. 

And then—he smiled. 

The video cut to black. 

A whisper in his ear, amused. 

"Do you believe me now?"