Visible Ghosts

29

Sang POV

Warmth on my cheek slowly wakes my sluggish brain. My thoughts are whirling to figure out what happened and snippets are slipping through. Owen's class and breakfast at the café with the guys. The injured dog. A theater mask. A sharp throb in my leg has my eyes flying open.

Sunlight streams in from a skylight window blinding me. I close my eyes again and wait for my foggy brain to catch up. I was kidnapped by someone in the alley. Zane was coming for me, he has to know that I'm missing by now.

Cracking my eyes open, I let them adjust to the light before I sit up. My hands are bound together in rope, what looks like a sailors knot secures them tightly. So tight that in my unconscious state I must have tried moving and they are already rubbed red. Gingerly positioning them in my lap, I observe my surroundings. I've been placed in a single bed with fluffed up pillows and a pink bedspread. A small desk with a wooden chair is in one corner and a standing wardrobe takes up half a wall. There's one door, which I'm sure is locked, and one skylight window. Even if I were able to move the wardrobe and climbed onto it I still wouldn't be able to reach the window.

Thankfully I'm not tied to the bed and scoot my way to the edge swinging my legs down. It feels a little awkward with my hands tied in front of me and my thigh burning from whatever they stabbed me with but not unmanageable. First, I try the door and surprise surprise it's locked and not just with one lock but with two deadbolts. The wardrobe is empty with a fine layer of dust coating the bottom. The desk provides no insights either, no pencils or even a spare paper clip. It seems like the room has been empty for a while yet it's clean, no grim or filth, just a few cobwebs in the corner.

Patting my front pockets, I let out a curse when I find my wallet, phone, and pocket knife missing. My book bag is gone. Sighing, I calculate my options. Best case scenario I get out of these binds, pick the lock, and escape before they come back for me. Worst case scenario I'm a handicapped sitting duck. Refusing to sit and wait for my fate, I tug a little at the rope to see if there is any wiggle room. One of my hands screams in protest when I remember punching my kidnapper in the face. A ghost of a smile crosses my lips when I think of how likely I broke their nose.

My right hand is swollen, a bruise already forming across my middle knuckle. That doesn't stop me from rotating my left wrist back and forth. I can feel the knot getting tighter and my skin breaking. Blood starts seeping through, creating a little bit of lubrication so I can twist my wrist fully. The pain is biting but it doesn't stop me from twisting until there's enough room for the rope to slide a minuscule distance down my arm. With the extra mobility and a bit of uncomfortable maneuvering I'm able to start picking at one of the knots.

My bloody wrist starts to become messy making it harder to grip anything and my likely broken knuckle has a thumping heartbeat of its own. It's slow progress but eventually I'm able to loosen one knot enough that the rope isn't strangling the blood circulation to my hands. Both of my wrists are rubbed raw and the air that hits the open wounds stings, but I can pull my hands away from each other.

I've just started to make progress on the second knot when I hear soft footsteps approaching. Putting my hands in front of me, I stand and watch the door warily. It crosses my mind to grab the desk chair and swing it even knowing my hands wouldn't let me swing it properly. The tumbling sound of the first lock has me tensing but the second one has my nerves calming. All the years of surviving and training taking over.

The door swings open with a loud creak, a built-in alarm for any escape. Standing before me is someone clothed entirely in black, boots, pants, and a hoodie. The clothing is bulky enough that it hides the gender of the masked figure. A new, unbroken, mask covers their face. They take two steps into the room, leaving the door open behind them. We watch each other, no one making a move, hardly a sound to be heard.