The soft scrape of fabric against polished tiles echoed in the dimly lit room as Rafael slowly inched across the floor. His movements were deliberate, each shift of his body measured as he crawled toward the flower vase perched on a small table in the corner.
Beads of sweat dotted his brow, his heart racing with both hope and dread. After Matthew had stormed out, Rafael's mind had been in overdrive, spinning endless scenarios, each one more desperate than the last, trying to find a way—any way—to escape.
That's when his eyes landed on the vase.
The smooth ceramic glinted faintly in the light, a beacon of fragile hope.
'If I can just reach it... break it... I could use the shards to cut through the rope,' Rafael thought, determination flooding his veins. He crept closer, every muscle in his body taut with anticipation. But as he neared the table, something made him stop dead in his tracks.
Footsteps.
