Unraveled

Chapter 17

Caleb's world was shrouded in a thick, suffocating darkness. His last memory was of being in his apartment—confusion, fear, and the overwhelming sensation of being watched. Then, a sharp blow. And now... nothing.

He felt as if he were floating in a void, time slipping away, his consciousness pulled in and out like a tide. Slowly, sensations began to return—the rough texture beneath his hands, the cold against his cheek, the pounding ache at the back of his skull. As his awareness grew, so did the sharp, suffocating pain in his wrists.

His hands were tied.

Panic surged through him, his breath catching in his throat. He tried to move, but his limbs felt like they were encased in lead. He pulled harder, his body straining against the tight restraints that bound him to something solid. His wrists burned as the rope dug into his skin, but it didn't budge.

The dull ache in his head intensified, each heartbeat throbbing in time with it. Slowly, his mind began to clear, the thick fog lifting just enough for him to take in his surroundings.

Where am I?

The air around him was thick and oppressive, heavy with a nauseating stench that made his stomach churn. The room was dimly lit by a single flickering bulb overhead, casting sickly yellow light over cracked, moldy walls. Shadows pooled in every corner, twisting and writhing like something alive.

He squinted, trying to get his bearings, his eyes struggling to adjust to the low light. His body was pressed up against a hard surface—a table, maybe, or a bed. The room was small, cramped, and windowless. The air was stale, thick with moisture and rot. He could hear the slow drip of water somewhere in the distance, the sound echoing off the walls like a slow, steady heartbeat.

And then, there was the smell.

It was overpowering, a rancid, sour stench that filled his nose and mouth, making it hard to breathe. The metallic taste of bile rose in his throat, and he swallowed hard, trying not to be sick.

What the hell is that smell?

He tugged at the ropes again, harder this time, but they held fast. Panic clawed at his throat, his mind racing. How long had he been here? Who had brought him? And why couldn't he remember?

As the fog continued to lift, fragmented images flashed in his mind—the fight with Aubrey, the feeling of betrayal, the locket in his pocket. He had been piecing together the truth, his suspicions about "Isabelle," about Lila. But before he could confront Aubrey... the attack.

Now, he was here.

The terror in his chest flared again, but he forced himself to breathe. Slowly. Deeply. He needed to think, to figure out where he was—and what was going on.

As he scanned the room, something caught his eye in the far corner. A figure—slumped, motionless.

He froze, his heart skipping a beat.

It was a person.

His eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat as he tried to make out the details through the dim light and shadows. The figure was crumpled against the wall, their head bent forward, hair hanging down over their face. Their clothes were filthy, torn in places, and their body was twisted at an unnatural angle, as though they had been carelessly tossed there and left to rot.

The stench was coming from them.

His mind screamed at him to look away, to not get any closer, but something compelled him to inch forward as much as his restraints allowed. His heart pounded in his chest as he squinted, trying to make out more details.