A groan tears from my throat as consciousness claws its way back—slow, brutal, like surfacing through thick mud after drowning. My skull pounds with a deep, relentless ache, each pulse a hammer striking the inside of my temples. My body feels heavy, my limbs foreign, as though I've been through something my mind can't remember but my body hasn't forgotten.
I force my eyes open.
The light is dim—gray and sickly, filtering through grime-caked windows that haven't seen sunlight in years. Everything is blurred at first, shapes swimming in and out of focus like half-remembered dreams. I blink once. Twice. Three times, willing the world to sharpen, to make sense of the chaos pressing against my skull.
Where the hell am I?
I look down.
I'm sitting on a wooden chair. My wrists are bound behind me with coarse, thick rope that bites into my skin with every small movement. The rough fibers dig deep, already chafing, leaving angry red welts that throb with their own dull ache.
