The world swam back into focus for Galahad Lawless, and with it came dread.
He blinked rapidly, trying to steady his vision. His body felt heavy and sluggish, and when he tried to move, he realized he couldn't.
His wrists and ankles were pinned, not by rope or chains, but by writhing bands of darkness. They clung to his skin like living tar, cold to the touch and not yielding an inch.
He was in his own dorm room, but it no longer looked like his own.
The lamp's glow was gone. The windows were blacked out, and every inch of wall and floor smothered under a suffocating layer of shadows. Even the air felt thicker, as if he were breathing through cloth.
His breath hitched when he felt the chill at his throat.
There was a blade, a knife sculpted from pure shadow, resting against his skin. It didn't cut, but instead, it sat there with just enough pressure to remind him how easily it could.
