# Chapter 4
Max's feet pounded against pavement. Then grass. Then—
The edge.
He didn't slow down. Didn't think. Just jumped.
The drop took longer than expected. Air rushing past him. The sound of water below.
He hit the surface—
Cold.
Something hit his face.
A drop.
Then another.
Cold water, falling from above. Hitting his forehead, his cheek. Regular intervals. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Max opened his eyes.
Black.
He was lying on his back. The hard surface beneath him. The drops kept falling. He could hear them hitting the floor around him too. A slow, steady leak from somewhere above.
His chest heaved. Heart still racing. He could taste something metallic in his mouth.
He lay there, trying to slow his breathing. The drops continued. One landed directly on his lips. He licked it away automatically.
Then—a sound.
A mechanical click.
Max's head turned toward it. Somewhere to his left. The sound of something heavy moving. Metal scraping against metal.
A door.
Opening.
He pushed himself up onto his elbows. Then to sitting. The movement made his head spin slightly.
"Hello?"
His voice came out hoarse. Uncertain.
No answer.
But the door was open—he could hear it. A faint difference in the air. A change in the way sound moved in the space.
Max got to his knees. Then his feet. Stood unsteadily.
He moved toward where he thought the sound had come from. Hands outstretched. Feet shuffling forward carefully.
Five steps. Six.
His foot hit something. He crouched down, hands searching.
A wall. The door frame, maybe.
He felt along it. Found the edge where the door should be. Ran his hand along the opening—
His fingers hit smooth wall.
The door was closed.
When had—
He pressed against it. Solid. No handle on this side. No seam he could find.
Max stepped back. His foot kicked something.
He crouched again. Reached down.
Metal. A tray.
His fingers explored it. A plate. Still warm. Something soft on it. Bread, maybe. And something else. Wet. Vegetables? Meat?
A cup. Liquid inside.
The smell hit him then. Food. Real food. His stomach cramped immediately, a sharp reminder that he hadn't eaten in—
How long?
He couldn't remember.
Max picked up what felt like bread. Brought it to his mouth. Bit into it.
Soft. Slightly sweet. Definitely bread.
He ate it quickly. Then felt for the other food. Some kind of stew, maybe. Chunks of something in liquid. He ate with his fingers, not caring what it was. Just eating.
The cup held water. Or something like water. Slightly bitter aftertaste, but close enough. He drank half of it. Saved the rest.
His hands found the tray again. Empty now except for the cup. He set it aside.
The food sat heavy in his stomach. Warm. Filling.
Max leaned back against the wall. The drop of water from the ceiling continued its rhythm somewhere behind him.
His eyelids felt heavy.
Just a moment. He'd rest for just a moment.
The darkness pressed in around him. Soft now. Almost comfortable.
He slid down until he was lying on the floor again. The hard surface didn't bother him as much anymore. His body felt distant. Heavy.
Sleep pulled at him.
He didn't fight it.
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Max's eyes opened.
How long—
He didn't know.
The room was still black. The dripping had stopped. Or maybe it hadn't. He couldn't hear it anymore.
He tried to sit up.
Pain shot through his head.
Sharp. Focused. Right where the stitches were.
He gasped, hand flying to his scalp. His fingers found the raised line. Pressed gently.
The pain spiked again. Worse this time.
He pulled his hand away quickly. His fingertips felt wet.
Blood?
He couldn't tell in the dark. Brought his fingers to his nose. Smelled them.
Antiseptic. Sharp and chemical. And underneath it, yes—blood. Fresh.
Max's breathing quickened.
The stitches felt... wrong. Different than before. He reached up again, more carefully this time. Traced the line.
Longer.
The line was longer.
It curved differently now. Extended further back. And there—another line. Crossing the first one. Forming a shape he couldn't quite map in his mind.
When had—
He tried to remember. The food. Eating. Lying down.
And then nothing.
How long had nothing lasted?
His head throbbed. The pain centered around the stitches but radiating outward. Behind his eyes. Down his neck.
Something had happened. While he was asleep.
Something had happened to his head.
Max sat very still in the dark, fingers hovering near his scalp but not touching. Afraid to touch. Afraid of what he might feel.
The silence pressed against his ears.
Somewhere, far away or very close—impossible to tell—he thought he heard something.
A voice.
No. Voices.
Muffled. Indistinct. Coming through walls or through his own skull, he couldn't tell which.
He held his breath. Listened.
Nothing.
Then—there. A sound like someone speaking. Or crying. Or laughing.
Gone again.
Max's hand dropped to his lap. The pain in his head continued. Steady. Insistent.
He touched the stitches one more time. Felt the new lines. The fresh blood.
And sat in the darkness, waiting.
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