Sloane Kingston
After tugging on some clothes, I step into the dim hallway, the creaky floorboards groaning underfoot as I carefully tread down the corridor. I exhale a shaky breath, steeling myself for what's to come, and knock on her door with three measured taps.
The door swings open almost immediately, and I barely have time to react before I find myself staring down the cold, unyielding barrel of a gun. My pulse quickens, and I instinctively swallow, my throat suddenly dry.
"Been expecting you," Hadley says, her tone laced with a mix of nonchalance and menace. Her sharp eyes flick past me, scanning the hallway before she steps back, allowing me inside. But the gun—her unwavering aim—never wavers, not for a second. The weight of it feels like a looming threat, a constant reminder that one wrong move could be my last.
