CHAPTER FOUR: WAKE OF WRECKAGE

The air reeked of cigar smoke—sharp, choking—curling into my nostrils. My breath hitched as I crept forward. Below, a figure slouched against a rusted pole, dragging a knife across stone. The shriek split the silence, clawing into my bones.

Wisps of smoke curled from their fingers, the ember briefly igniting their mask—daring, unforgiving.

My eyes flicked to a red door—the basement. My gut clenched as I moved toward it. The door creaked open, revealing a stark room: a bunk bed with rumpled sheets.

I traced my fingers along the rough walls, pausing at the flash of metal beneath the bottom bunk. The drawer’s hinges groaned as I slid it open. A swarm of flies erupted, buzzing deafeningly as they veered toward my face.

My stomach lurched at the horrific sight—a tattered piece of cloth, soaked in fresh blood. I slammed the drawer shut, the coppery tang of rot coiling in my throat.

But something was off. A bag—almost pristine amid the filth. I plunged in. Something cold brushed my fingers, sending a jolt racing up my arm. I pulled it into the dim light—a gun, heavy and metallic, its barrel gleaming like a watchful eye.

A heap of folded clothes caught my attention. Without a second thought, I stripped off my old outfit and slipped into blue jeans and a dark sweater, the fabric snug against my skin.

Just as I prepared to leave, a door slammed shut, echoing through the walls. I stiffened, cold sweat trickling down my neck.

Footsteps crept toward me—soft, deliberate. My voice rasped, mocking me in the silence. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

I slipped out of the room, pulse hammering. The hallway stretched ahead, a gaping maw swallowing every path, leaving nowhere to run—nowhere to hide.

I pushed the door open, the hinges wailing against the frame. And there it was again—the mask. I scanned the room, searching for someone, something—but nothing. Until I noticed it: streaks of red pooling beneath my feet.

A shadow flickered at the corner of my vision, and I jolted as our eyes met. Masked, tall, and looming, the man advanced—each step smearing fresh crimson across the floor, blood dripping steadily from the hem of his coat.

He stopped. The knife screeched against the wall, slicing through me like a blade.

Silence.

Then—drip. Drip.

Blood shimmered as it slid from the blade, splattering on the floor—wet, like a slap.

I took a step back, his mask catching the pale glow of the broken lightbulb overhead. I couldn’t make out his features, but I knew he was watching me, his lips twitching beneath the mask.

I pressed into the wall, the metal of my bag biting into my shoulder. Every breath felt too loud. Too risky.

A creak tore through the silence—something shifting behind me. I whipped around, heart pounding, reaching for anything to defend myself. But there was nothing. Just the hallway, its shadows creeping like silent hands.

I dared a glance.

He was closer now.

Too close.

The knife’s edge flashed in the dim light, making my heart stutter.

Run. Every instinct screamed it, but my feet refused to move.

A single, ragged breath ghosted through the silence.

Before I could process it, a voice—like ice shattering on stone—cut through the quiet. Hard as steel, yet piercing as iron.

“So, we meet again.”

The words crawled across my skin, low and gravelly, burning into me like acid.

I stood frozen, muscles locked beneath my faltering frame. My eyes flicked between the masked figure and the obsidian blade, unable to break a blink.

“Do you remember me?” he hissed, each word a dagger. “Or has your memory failed you too?”

A shiver crawled down my spine. My heart leapt into my throat, words failing me.

“Not ready?” His laughter was sharp, humorless. “Zayn Orson.” The name slithered from his lips. “The boy from St. Holloway.” He sneered. “You can’t run from who you are.”

St. Holloway.

The name hit like a slap to the face, jolting me back to a night I couldn’t remember clearly—faces blurred in a haze of fire and smoke, screams muffled, a hand yanking me from the chaos.

My breath hitched.

Did he know about… her?

No.

I couldn’t think about that. Not now. Not here. But his words made it impossible to ignore what I’d spent years trying to bury.

Some things refuse to stay dead.

He tilted his head, moving closer—close enough that I could feel the heat of his breath through the mask.

“You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

I didn’t know what he meant, but I didn’t deny it.

I couldn’t.

His laughter echoed through me like nails scraping against metal.

“You can’t—because I haven’t. Not for a second.”

I opened my mouth, but no sound came. There was nothing left to say.

And then—a noise. Soft but unmistakable.

It shattered my thoughts.

My stomach dropped.

My mind froze.

“Zayn… it’s you, isn’t it?”