TORTURE, SUPERNATURAL

ꜰᴏᴜʀ. ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀɪɴɢ ʜᴜʀᴛꜱ

I take a deep breath. Pause. Let it out.

The heavy, rusting door creaks as I push it open. Inside the mill, the air is damp and sharp with the scent of oxidized metal and mold. The cold wraps around me like a wet shroud. Goosebumps rise across my arms as my boots click against the concrete, the sound vanishing quickly into the vast, shadow-laced space.

It takes my eyes a few heartbeats to adjust. When they do, I clutch my knife tighter and sweep the room.

The mill sprawls out like a mechanical graveyard. I'm on the first floor—just one level in what must've once been a massive industrial hub. At least two more stories loom above, but parts have caved in, leaving holes in the floor and gnarled beams that reach downward like claws. Everything is steeped in stillness, save for the occasional groan of stressed metal in the rafters. Dean and Sam must be upstairs, but I can't hear them. I am utterly alone down here.

Rows of rusted mixing vats, towering tanks, and collapsed catwalks create a maze around me. I slip between them, cautious. Every step must be intentional—there are glass shards scattered like confetti, half-leaking barrels that hiss, and greasy puddles that threaten to take my footing. The decay is everywhere, creeping over every surface like a skin.

Still, that decay is a blessing. The Djinn won't risk charging through this chaos.

I keep low, my knife gleaming faintly as I shift it from hand to hand. Djinns are ghost-quick. Silent predators. They strike when you think you're safe, and by the time you realize, it's already too late.

A faint scuff. Careful, light. Not mechanical.

Footsteps.

I duck behind one of the overturned vats, press my back flat against the cold concrete wall. I still my breath, feeling it tremble in my chest. Every muscle locks into place as I count the steps. One... two... closer.

The moment they're beside me—I lunge.

Steel flashes as I dive at the figure. The Djinn twists just in time, dodging my blade with inhuman grace. I hit the ground hard, rolling onto my knees. My knife slashes the air as I raise it again.

She's already grinning.

The Djinn is tall, statuesque, barefoot. She looks young—maybe my age—but her eyes are impossibly ancient. Glowing with that eerie blue light, like lightning frozen in glass. Her skin is covered in ink: symbols I don't recognize winding up her neck and arms, glowing faintly with power.

"Cute entrance," she purrs. "You must be the little hunter they sent in alone."

I don't answer. I shift my weight onto the balls of my feet.

She notices. Smiles wider.

"Oh, don't worry," she says, voice silken. "This will be over soon."

She laughs—low and cruel—and her voice echoes against the broken-down walls. I scowl before I rush at her. 

My foot snaps out, aiming for her knee. She's faster. She spins to the side, her fist slamming into my ribs. The impact knocks the wind out of me, and I stumble backward, gasping. Her follow-up punch comes fast, aiming for my face, but I twist at the last second, block it with my forearm, and slice my blade across her inner wrist.

The lamb's blood on the blade hisses as it touches her. She screams.

"You little bitch!" she shrieks, backing off and clutching her arm. "You cut me!"

Before I can move again, her hand clamps around my throat like a steel vice.

"You're going to pay for that," she snarls. Her breath is hot and rank on my face. Her lips curl back, revealing sharp fangs. "My turn to have some fun."