Panic Attack
Blake's chest heaved as he sat on the cold, metallic floor of the main hall, his breath coming in rapid, shallow gasps. The concrete walls, surprisingly spacious, seemed to close in on him, pressing on his lungs like a vice.
His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing the terror that surged through his veins. Images of his six-year-old self flashed before his eyes – the small, dark cell, the heavy iron bars, the oppressive silence punctuated only by his own frightened whimpers. He had been so small, so vulnerable, when he had first been caged. The memory of his desperate escape, the scrape of his skin against rough walls, and the taste of freedom just beyond reach now felt like a cruel illusion.
