When I woke, the first thing I noticed was the sound—steady, rhythmic, like water dripping somewhere far away. My head throbbed, my mouth tasted of metal and salt. The air was damp and smelled of earth and fear.
I tried to move, but my wrists burned against rope. My heart stuttered. I blinked hard until shadows took shape: stone walls, a single bulb swaying from a cord, a door of iron bars. A cell.
For a moment I couldn't remember how I'd got here. Then it hit me—Rafael. The lighthouse. The gunshot. The hands dragging me away through the dark. His voice shouting my name, fading behind me.
"Rafael," I whispered, the word breaking in my throat.
I twisted against the rope until it cut deeper, but the knot held. Whoever had taken me knew what they were doing. I forced myself to breathe slow, to listen. Footsteps above, faint. The hum of a generator. Somewhere, a door creaked.
I wasn't alone.
