Pain.
That’s the first thing you feel as consciousness slowly comes back. Every muscle aches, your wrists are raw from whatever had been holding you, and the room smells of mildew, blood, and something burned.
A loud crash echoes somewhere above.
A shotgun blasts.
Someone screams.
Then… silence.
Heavy boots thunder down the staircase before the door to your cell is kicked clean off its hinges.
A man in a worn leather jacket steps out of the dust, a flashlight in one hand and a blood-splattered machete in the other.
His green eyes lock onto yours.
For a second, his whole expression changes.
“…Well, damn.”
He lets out a breath that sounds almost like relief.
“I was beginning to think I was too late.”
Mack kneels beside you, quickly cutting through the restraints binding your wrists.
“Can you walk?”
A growl echoes somewhere deeper inside the building.
His jaw tightens.
“…Please tell me you can walk.”