"Cold," I murmur, wincing as the icy bite of metal presses against my back. The chill creeps into me like an unwelcome intruder, settling in my bones and refusing to leave. The floor reeks of dog piss, stale vomit, and despair—a combination potent enough to gag a maggot. But the cold… The cold is worse. It's the kind of all-consuming freeze that short-circuits your thoughts, leaving only the raw misery of existence. A cold so biting it makes you question everything—like whether warmth is just a cruel myth invented by blanket companies.
I've never envied high school boys before, but right now, I'd give anything to strut through this frigid hell wearing gym shorts, pretending the cold doesn't bother me, proudly showcasing nonexistent calves to the world.
But how did I even end up in this cold prison? Let me tell you my backstory—because that's how stories start, right? Except... I can't. Nothing. Blank. Zip. The harder I try to pull at the threads of my past, the faster they unravel into a big, fat nothing.
Okay, fine. Let's start smaller. My name. Simple enough. Except... nope. Nothing there either.
My age? Not even a clue. It's like my brain packed up, left a snarky note that says, "Good luck, loser," and took a permanent vacation.
Panic curls in my chest, but I refuse to give in. I laugh—sharp and jagged—because what else can I do? I'm a blank slate.
Then I hear it: a groan. Low, guttural, and entirely too human. My head jerks upright so fast my vision blurs. Someone is lying next to me. His face is scrunched up like he's debating whether to wake up or stay unconscious forever. He looks like he lost a fight with a dumpster.
"Hey," I rasp. No response. "Dude, wake up," I say louder, but he doesn't stir. I consider slapping him awake—nothing says "good morning" like a face smack—but before I can, his eyes flutter open.
We lock eyes, both radiating What the hell is going on? energy.
Then it hits—the smell. Oh, the smell. It's like a thousand-year-old sock marinated in sewage and hopelessness.
He gags violently, clutching his nose. I wave a hand in front of my face like it'll help. Spoiler: it doesn't. "It smells like something crawled in here to die. Twice."
He coughs, his watery eyes narrowing at me like I'm personally responsible for this olfactory nightmare. "Did you… kidnap me?" he croaks.
I blink. "Kidnap you? Seriously?" I snort, but it comes out as a hacking cough. "If I did, don't you think I'd pick a better location? Like, maybe one with less… haunted-outhouse vibes?"
"People do weird stuff." His voice is hoarse, but there's a bite to it, like he's not the type to trust easily. "You don't exactly scream 'trustworthy.'"
I huff. "Says the guy who looks like he fought a raccoon and lost."
"Hey!" He rubs a hand over his face, glaring at me. "At least I don't look like I just crawled out of a dumpster fire."
"Dumpster fire?" I scoff. "That's rich, coming from you. I'm just saying, if this were a crime scene, you'd be the prime suspect based on appearances alone."
He pauses, giving me a once-over. "You've got jokes. Great. That's exactly what we need right now—comedy hour in a murder shack."
"Better than paranoia hour." I lean back, crossing my arms, even though the cold makes me regret it immediately. "What's your name, anyway? Or do I just call you Dumpster Fire?"
His lips twitch, like he's fighting back a smirk. "Mason. And you?"
"No idea," I admit, trying to sound nonchalant. "I woke up with the same existential crisis as you."
Mason—which is definitely not his name—frowns, skepticism flashing across his face. "Convenient."
I roll my eyes. "Yeah, super convenient. Because waking up in the smell-o-rama capital of the world with amnesia is exactly how I'd plan to spend my weekend."
He crosses his arms, leaning back against the wall as if testing whether he can trust it—or me. "You don't even know your own name?"
"Why, is that the dealbreaker for you? Were we about to form a life-long friendship before my lack of name ruined it?"
"You're a real comedian, aren't you?" he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I try," I reply, shrugging. "Comedy's a great way to distract from the whole 'we might die in a murder shack' vibe."
His lips twitch, almost imperceptibly. "Guess I should be relieved you're not crying or screaming."
"Don't jinx it. I'm reserving the right to freak out later." I glance around, scanning for anything remotely useful. "So…Mason, huh? That your real name, or are we both flying blind here?"
"It's real enough," he says, evasive.
"Real enough?" I arch a brow. "Wow, that's reassuring. Should I call you Mason-ish?"
He exhales sharply, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. "Fine. My name is probably not Mason. It's just the first thing that popped into my head. You got a better one?"
"Depends. You got a vibe for Mason? Feels a little...accountant-y to me. Maybe you're more of a Logan."
"Logan?" He scoffs. "I don't think so. Too action-hero for someone stuck here."
I grin. "Alright, I will just stick to calling you trust issues cause it describes you better than a Mason"
He shakes his head, but I catch a faint smirk this time. "What about you?"
I pause, tapping my chin like I'm seriously considering it.
But Before I can respond, he stands abruptly—nearly knocking me over in the process—and strides toward what passes for a door.
"Wait!" I hiss, my horror-movie instincts kicking in. "What if there's something out there?"
"Something out there?" He gives me a sideways glance. "Look around. Whatever nightmare's in here can't be worse than what's outside."
"That's exactly the kind of thinking that gets people killed in horror movies," I mutter, but he's already pushed the door open, leaving me no choice but to follow.
The dim light from the shack fades as we step into pitch darkness. Perfect. I can't even see my own hand, let alone the idiot in front of me.
Trust Issues is walking around the shed like he's the one who's got it all figured out, looking over every rusted tool, every half-rotted piece of wood, like he's conducting some kind of investigation. Meanwhile, I'm trailing behind him like a lost puppy, trying not to trip over my own feet.
"Awesome," I mutter. "This is definitely how I die. Lost in the dark with Trust Issues."
"You got a better plan?" his voice drifts back to me, clipped and annoyed. "Because standing around isn't it."
Then it hits me. I'm short. Like, really short. I glance down, realizing I'm 5'1—maybe 5'2 on a good day. And if I wasn't already freaked out by this whole situation, I'd be annoyed at how small I feel.
Then there's Trust Issues, towering over me like a damn skyscraper. The dude's probably 5'11, maybe even 6 feet tall, and I'm just here looking up at him like a toddler every time he says something remotely intelligent... which, frankly, isn't often.
And don't even get me started on the fact that he seriously thinks a 5'1 girl like me could kidnap a guy who looks like he could bench press a small car. Who does he think I am? I'd be lucky to knock over a soda can, let alone drag his ass anywhere. If anything, the only thing being kidnapped is the last shred of sanity I have left —by him, at this point.
Something shifts underfoot—a faint squelch—and my stomach churns. The air thickens, carrying a metallic tang that prickles at my nose. Then, a wet, cold splatter lands on my cheek. I freeze.
"What the—?" Another drop hits Trust issues, and he curses, wiping at his back. "What is this?"
Then I see it. "Yep, it was the forbidden human juice." I swallow hard, trying not to gag as I stare at my hands, now smeared with the worst thing I could imagine.
My stomach twists as the scent of blood saturates the air.
I look up.
There, hanging from the ceiling, is a hogtied sheep. Its belly has been slit open, entrails spilling out like some macabre piñata. Strange, jagged symbols are smeared across the ceiling in blood, their sharp lines stabbing through the darkness.
The sound of buzzing fills the silence—flies, swarming the carcass. A faint creak echoes, as though the sheep's weight is too much for the ceiling to bear.
Trust issues breath hitches beside me. "This is…" His voice falters. "What the hell is this?"
"I don't know," I whisper, the cold bite of terror creeping up my spine. "But I don't think we're supposed to be here."