ᴀʟᴡᴀʏs | ᴊᴀʏ ʜᴀʟsᴛᴇᴀᴅ

𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗.

✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ:*

Mia watches as Daniel drags Heather kicking and screaming from the warehouse, fading into the darkness the closer they get to a door on the opposite side of where she entered through the hallway. Her breath hitches in her throat when the slamming door echoes throughout the otherwise empty building, eyes brimming with unshed tears. After a moment of holding her breath, praying that this is some nightmare she can wake up from, she gasps out a choked sob. Her hands tremble as she buries her fingers in her hair, the metal cuff biting into one of her wrists and stopping the movement short. Anger courses through her veins as she glares at the handcuffs and Mia wraps her fingers around the chain links, relentlessly yanking on the restraints. The sound of metal scraping against metal barely hits her ears, everything becoming white noise. She isn't sure how long she struggles before the sting of the metal cutting into her skin finally registers, blinking through watery eyes until her vision clears enough to see the bloody scrapes on her wrist.

Slamming her palms against the pole, Mia lets out an angry scream before leaning her forehead against it, closing her eyes and trying to steady her racing heart. She only has herself to blame for this, right? She came here alone; she didn't call Jay; she dropped the gun. Maybe the police could've helped. She should've trusted them. But because of her, Heather is probably dead and now, she'll be next.

No. She refuses to be next. She refuses to let him win – not without a fight.

With one last deep breath through her nose, she uses her sleeve to wipe at her cheeks and sits up straight. She uses her free hand to brush the hair out of her face before focusing on her surroundings. Her eyes scan for anything she could use to break free, struggling to see with the only light coming from a dim lamp on the table a few feet away. There is nothing in her pockets, nothing on the mattress or the concrete floor. Growing frustrated, her eyes land on the cheap-looking chair and focus on the legs, the wood being held together by nails. An idea sparks in her mind and she shuffles forward until the handcuff bites into her skin again, glaring back at it. But Mia is determined.

She stretches as much as she can to try to reach the chair. If she can just grab it with her foot and pull it closer, maybe she can use one of the nails to pick the lock. It's so close, that she can almost reach it. Mia tries to extend more and grits her teeth at the pain in her wrist. When she just barely reaches the leg of the chair with her shoe, all it does is nudge it further away. She lets out a dejected groan and deflates, the back of her head thumping against the mattress for a moment before she sits back up to regroup.