Dr. Villanueva groaned as he slowly regained consciousness, the dull ache at the back of his head throbbing insistently. His eyes fluttered open, squinting against the harsh glare of a single flickering bulb that hung overhead. The surroundings blurred into focus, revealing a stark, dimly lit warehouse with exposed beams and dusty concrete floors.
As he tried to move, he realized his wrists and ankles were tightly bound with zip ties, securing him to a rickety metal chair. The coolness of the metal seeped through his thin shirt, sending a shiver down his spine. His mouth was dry, his lips parched, and every small movement sent waves of pain radiating from his head.
Around him, the warehouse was ominously quiet, save for the distant sound of dripping water and the occasional scurrying of rats. The air was musty, filled with the smell of mildew and old machinery oil, hinting at the long disuse of the place.
