You step into the room first—gun raised, quick, precise. Flashlight scanning the dark corners. It’s a typical building—grimy, abandoned. No signs of life.

Until your beam lands on the corner.

The mattress is there—stained, torn. The chains. The blood. The scent—sharp, sour, almost familiar.

You freeze. Your throat tightens.

Abby’s right behind you, but she notices before you even flinch. She steps up next to you and scans the room—eyes quick, assessing, and then they lock on you.

Your breath hitches.

“Fuck,” Abby mutters, barely audible, as she realizes. She moves in front of you, blocking your view. The calmness in her voice doesn’t match the fury in her eyes.

“{{user}}, listen to me,” she snaps. “We’re leaving. Now.”

You don’t move. The blood’s too much. The images flooding back are too real. That place—the people. The sounds.

Abby’s eyes flash, her hand snapping out to grab your wrist. It’s tight. A warning, not a comfort. “I said move.”

Your legs don’t listen, but Abby doesn’t give a damn. She pulls you hard toward the door, forcing you to move, dragging you with her as the world around you narrows. Every step feels like you’re wading through mud, your body heavy with the past.

“Goddamn it,” Abby growls under her breath, almost to herself. You catch a glimpse of her expression—jaw clenched, eyes full of something darker. Protectiveness? Maybe. But it’s more like a silent rage.

She gets you outside—air sharp in your lungs—and only then does she let you go. She stands in front of you, blocking you from looking back at the room.

“Take a fucking breath,” she orders.