The necklace hung limp in my hand, its weight a tether to Raisa—or to whatever I'd done to her. My eyes burned, fixed on the torn paper where her name bled into mine, the words She loved me. And it wasn't enough smeared like a confession I hadn't meant to write. The dripping sound hammered on, relentless, a pulse I couldn't escape. Four hours, maybe—I'd stopped counting, but the air felt thicker, the room smaller, as if it were shrinking with every breath.
The speaker crackled, slicing through the haze. I tensed, waiting, my fingers curling tighter around the pendant. The voice came, sharper now, edged with something new—anger, maybe, or impatience: "You're wasting time, Lukas. Look closer. It's right in front of you." My head snapped up, scanning the room. The concrete walls, the flickering neon, the steel door—nothing had changed. Or had it? The voice had never been this direct, this urgent.
"Look closer," I muttered, echoing it. My gaze darted to the table, the paper, the pen still lying where I'd thrown it. Nothing. I stood, unsteady, and checked the speaker—rusted, silent now, just a dead thing on the wall. The dripping grew louder, insistent, pulling my attention. I'd searched for it before, found nothing, but this time I followed the sound, tracing it with my hands along the cold concrete.
It led me to the corner, beneath the table. I dropped to my knees, squinting in the dim light. There—a crack, thin as a hair, running vertically up the wall. I hadn't seen it before, or maybe I hadn't looked hard enough. Water seeped from it, a slow trickle pooling on the floor, glistening faintly under the neon's glow. My pulse quickened. This was new. This was something.
I pressed my fingers to the crack, the dampness cold against my skin. It wasn't wide enough to pry open, but it felt alive, like the room was bleeding. I leaned closer, my breath fogging in the chill, and saw it—a glint, barely there, embedded in the fissure. I scraped at it with my nails, heart pounding, until a small object loosened and fell into my palm: a key. Tiny, rusted, its teeth worn but sharp.
I stared at it, my mind racing. A key. For the door? I stumbled to the steel slab, jamming it into the lock. It didn't fit—too small, the mechanism too stiff. I cursed, slamming my fist against the metal, the sound swallowed by the dripping. "What's it for?" I shouted at the speaker, at the walls, at whatever was listening. No answer, just that maddening hum of static flickering back to life.
The voice returned, colder now: "You locked her away. You turned the key." My stomach dropped. Locked her away? Raisa? I saw her again—the riverbank, her hands on my arms, pleading. "Don't do this," she'd said, her voice trembling. Had I trapped her somewhere? My hands shook as I gripped the key, its edges biting into my palm. Another memory clawed up—darkness, a door slamming shut, her muffled cries fading as I walked away. No—ran away. I'd run, hadn't I?
I staggered back to the table, dropping the key beside the necklace. The paper stared up, accusing: She loved me. And it wasn't enough. I grabbed the pen, scribbling fast: You locked her away. The words felt true, too true, slotting into the jagged pieces of my mind. But where? When? I pressed the key to my forehead, willing it to tell me, but it stayed silent, a dead thing from a past I couldn't reach.
The speaker hissed again. "She's still waiting," it said, the words soft, almost a whisper. "Find her." My breath caught. Waiting? Alive? The hope flared, sharp and painful, cutting through the fog. I lunged at the crack in the wall, clawing at it with the key, desperate to widen it. The concrete held firm, my fingers slipping on the wet surface, but I didn't stop. "Raisa!" I yelled, my voice raw. "Are you there?"
The dripping answered—a steady, mocking beat. I sank back, panting, the key slick with water and blood from my scraped knuckles. She wasn't here. Not behind this wall. But the voice—the voice knew. It always knew. I glared at the speaker, my chest heaving. "Where is she?" I demanded. "Tell me!"
Static, then silence. I slammed the table, the key skittering across it, landing beside the necklace. The two glinted together—her initial, her heart, and this rusted thing I'd used against her. Another memory flickered, faint but piercing: Raisa's face pressed to a window, her hands pounding glass, her mouth shaping my name. I'd stood outside, the key in my hand, rain soaking me through. "I'm sorry," I'd said, or thought I had, before turning away.
I recoiled, the image burning. Had I left her to die? Locked her somewhere—by the river, maybe—and run like a coward? The blood on my hands in those flashes—hers, or someone else's? I grabbed the paper, writing over the mess: She's still waiting. The words trembled, ink pooling where my hand shook. Waiting where? For what?
The neon light flickered faster, casting the room in frantic pulses. I picked up the key again, turning it over. On its flat side, scratched so faintly I'd missed it, was a number: 13. My heart stopped. Thirteen what? Hours? Days? A clue? I traced it with my thumb, the rust flaking off. Thirteen. It meant something—I could feel it—but my mind was too fractured to grasp it.
The speaker buzzed one last time. "You're running out of places to hide," it said, and the static died, leaving me alone with the dripping, the key, and her name. I looked at the crack, the water still seeping, then at the door. The key didn't fit it, but something else might. Something I hadn't found yet. I stood, clutching the necklace and the key, my eyes darting around the room. Look closer, it had said. It was here—all of it—Raisa, the truth, the blood.
I just had to find it before the hours ran dry.