Sloane Kingston
In the dim light of my hidden room, the air is thick with the scent of old paper and the faintest hint of bleach—remnants of the last clean-up. I stand before the wall of names, each one crossed out with a stroke of crimson ink, a symbolic death before the real one. Two more names have joined the list this week, the ink still fresh, the blood even fresher. We're closing in on the endgame, and I can see the cracks in Noah's resolve as he watches me.
He's sweating bullets, the pressure starting to show on his usually composed face. His eyes dart nervously to the list, then back to me, a silent plea lurking in the shadows of his gaze. But I can't stop now, not when we're so close to finishing what we started.
