The Weight of Grahams

The cold hit me first.

Not the kind of cold that makes you reach for a blanket. The kind that seeps into your bones and makes you wonder if you are already dead.

My head throbbed. Each pulse sent a sharp pain through my skull, like someone was driving nails into it. I tried to lift my hand to touch the spot that hurt, but my arms would not move.

That was when I realized my hands were tied.

My eyes snapped open. Darkness pressed in from all sides, broken only by thin strips of gray light slipping through gaps in the walls. The air smelled wrong. Rust, mold, and something chemical that burned my nose.

Where was I?

I blinked hard, fighting through the fog in my mind. Slowly, shapes began to form. Metal beams overhead. Concrete floor beneath me. Broken crates stacked in corners. A warehouse. An abandoned one.

My wrists burned. Rope dug into my skin, wound tight and deliberate. My ankles were bound too. I was sitting on the floor with my back against something solid. A support beam, probably.

How did I get here?

Fragments surfaced. A courtroom. A gavel coming down. Voices shouting. Prison bars. The smell of disinfectant and sweat.

Prison.

That part was clear. Everything after that was a blur.

Then I heard it. A voice. Low, cold, and unmistakable.

"You should have stayed buried."

Vincent.

His name hit me like a punch. Vincent Hale. The memories came fast. Not just the trial and the verdict. Him. Standing outside the prison gates. Smiling.

He had been waiting for me.

My breath quickened. I yanked at the ropes, ignoring how they scraped my skin. The beam behind me did not budge.

"Vincent." I tried to shout, but my throat was dry and the word rasped out.

No answer. Only the echo of my own voice.

Footsteps followed. Heavy boots on concrete. Moving away.

"Wait." Louder this time. "Vincent, wait."

Nothing.

Somewhere far in the building, a door creaked. Not the sound of someone arriving. The sound of someone leaving.

Panic clamped around my chest. I twisted against the ropes. Pain flared in my head and warm liquid trickled down my cheek.

Blood.

How hard had he hit me?

Outside, an engine rumbled to life. A familiar sound. Vincent's black SUV. The same one he had driven the day everything fell apart.

"No. No, no."

I pulled harder, skin tearing, wrists slick with blood. Useless.

The engine faded. He was driving away. He was leaving me here.

I forced myself to stop and think. Look around. Anything sharp. Anything at all.

My eyes adjusted further. Broken glass. Rusted machinery. A metal shelf on its side. All too far away.

I tried to stand. Pain shot through my left ankle and dropped me instantly.

Sprained. Maybe broken.

Think, Anastasia. Think.

How long had I been unconscious? Minutes? Hours? The last clear memory was walking out of the prison gates. Squinting into sunlight. Breathing air that did not taste like recycled fear.

Then Vincent had been there.

"Congratulations on your release," he had said. Smiling. Not friendly. Triumphant.

I should have run. Should have screamed. Should have done anything but get in his car.

But I was tired. Hollow. And a small, foolish part of me had still hoped he was not the monster I knew he was.

Now I was tied in a forgotten warehouse, bleeding and alone.

The engine was gone now. Completely.

And then I smelled it.

Smoke.

At first I thought it was a hallucination. Panic fog playing tricks on me. But then thin wisps curled through the wall slats, gray fingers creeping into the room.

My heart froze.