Current WIP — I have more written on a doc but would love feedback so far 🫧 I originally started it years ago but currently working on finishing old projects before starting new ones. Feel free to flllow me here for more of this story

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I wake up in a strange, dark room. My mouth is unbearably dry, and there’s a sharp, excruciating pain radiating from my head. My hands are tied behind my back, the restraints digging into my wrists. I try to move, but the bindings keep me locked against the hard chair. Something warm and sticky drips down the side of my leg, pooling on the floor. Is this… blood?

Bright lights illuminate, temporarily blinding me. I shout, but no words come out. My gag prevents any words from forming. As my eyes adjust to the lights, I see that I am in a windowless room with stage lights and an intercom system on the ceiling. I try screaming again, but nothing. No sound comes out.

A monotonous voice blares out of the intercom, “Marianna Nunez, welcome to your new reality.”

The voice is robotic, emotionless, and grating, but I don’t flinch. Instead, I take a deep breath through my nose, steadying the adrenaline coursing through me. My leg throbs, but pain is just information. Blood means I still have time. Time to think, time to act.

“You’ve been chosen,” the voice continues. “How fortunate you are to participate in our little experiment. Cooperate, and your suffering will be minimal. Resist, and—well, you’ll see.”

An experiment. I’ve heard that line before. Same script, different amateur villain.

I subtly test the restraints. Rope—thick but poorly knotted. Amateur work. My leg is sticky, and I realize my knife must have grazed me on the way in. Sloppy. They didn’t check me for weapons.

Carefully, I shift in the chair, wiggling my fingers until I can nudge the blade’s handle tucked into the pocket of my cargo pants. It’s awkward and slow, but I manage to inch it upward, enough to grasp the tip with my fingertips.

The voice drones on about rules, consequences, and some garbage about control. I tune it out, concentrating instead on positioning the blade against the rope. The chair creaks as I move, but I freeze, waiting for the voice to continue.

My focus sharpens. The chair leg under my heel is wobbly. Good. I angle my body just enough to apply pressure, feeling the chair shift. A distraction is all I’ll need.

“You may feel fear, Marianne,” the voice says. “But it’s best to accept—”

The chair slams to the ground as I throw my weight sideways, snapping one of the legs clean off. The impact sends a jolt of pain through my injured leg, but it’s worth it. My captor goes silent.

“Fugg,” I mumble, the gag muffling my voice. I manage to grip the handle and work the blade upward, sawing carefully at the rope as I roll to the side, positioning myself for the next move.

“Subject is… noncompliant,” the intercom voice stammers.

No kidding.

The intercom clicks off, leaving an eerie silence that’s almost louder than the voice itself. Good. They didn’t expect me to fight back. That gives me the edge.

A quick twist, a sharp pull, and my hands are free. Blood rushes back into my fingers as I tug the gag from my mouth, gasping in the stale air. My leg protests as I shift, but I push through the pain. Quickly, I use the gag’s fabric and rope to wrap it around my wounded leg to slow the bleeding. It’s crude, but it’ll hold for now. I grab the broken chair leg. It’s not much, but along with my knife it’ll do.

A door opens. Heavy boots thud against the floor. The cavalry's coming.