Enigmatic

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The darkness pressed against him like a wet blanket, suffocating and heavy, clinging to every inch of his skin. He woke to the sound of his own breath—sharp, shallow gasps that filled the silence like the panicked flutter of a dying bird. His mouth was dry, the coppery taste of blood clinging to his tongue, and when he tried to move, pain bloomed in his wrists, raw and aching from the rough rope biting into his flesh.

He blinked, but the darkness didn't change, didn't move. It was as if the world had been swallowed whole, leaving him alone in this black, endless void. The air was thick, and damp, carrying the scent of wet dirt and mildew, a smell that clung to the back of his throat, turning every breath into a slow suffocation. Somewhere above him, the faint creak of wood broke the silence, the moan of an old shed giving in to the wind outside, but the sound was distant, hollow as if it were miles away.

His hands twitched, instinctively pulling at the bindings. They didn't give. His fingers grazed the cold, rough wood beneath him. The splinters dug into his skin like teeth, sharp and unforgiving. His heart was beating too fast, each thud a wild animal trapped inside his chest, desperate to escape. But he didn't scream. Not yet. Screaming would make it real, and he wasn't ready to face the reality that was closing in on him like a steel trap.

He shifted slightly, his back scraping against the hardwood beneath him, and felt the cool kiss of damp oak and judging from the smell, the wetness was caused by blood, blood that clung to his skin, blood that belonged to him. The cold crawled up his spine, worming its way into his bones. A shiver raked through him, not just from the cold, but from the creeping sense that he was somewhere he wasn't supposed to be. Somewhere no one was supposed to be.

His head throbbed—a dull, relentless ache, as though someone had driven nails into his skull. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten here. Couldn't remember much of anything except flashes of... something. Bright lights. A face, maybe? It slipped through his mind like smoke, impossible to grasp.

There was a faint rustling sound from above him, like the whisper of trees swaying in the wind, but here, inside this small, suffocating space, it felt as if the air itself was holding its breath. He could feel it—the weight of something watching him, waiting. His stomach twisted with the familiar, primal sense of being prey.

The silence dragged on, heavy and unrelenting, until it was broken by a sound—a faint creak, barely there, like the slow exhale of an old house settling in the night. Then it came again, louder, closer, the unmistakable groan of wood bending beneath the weight. Footsteps.

Someone was coming.

It was distant at first, above him, but the sound drew nearer with a slow, steady cadence, like the ticking of a clock winding down. His heart, which had been thrumming wildly in his chest, now froze in place. He stared up at the ceiling, as though he could see through the thick wood beams and rafters, see who or what was coming down.

The footsteps stopped for a moment, replaced by the faint hum of wind slipping through the cracks in the walls. The darkness seemed to tighten, pulling at the edges of his vision, and squeezing the air out of the room. And then, with a soft click, the door above him opened.

A slow creak followed—the sound of old hinges forced to move after years of disuse. The smell of damp, rotting wood flooded his senses, mingling with the musty earth and the metallic tang of blood. His blood.

The figure descended the stairs one slow step at a time. With each footfall, the old wood groaned louder, like a warning call. The man tried to twist his head toward the stairs, but the sharp bite of pain in his neck kept him pinned to the bloodstained table. His breath hitched as he saw movement—a shadow gliding down the staircase, indistinct and ghostly in the low light. The figure moved with purpose, never hurrying.