The warehouse smelled of rust and damp concrete. Shadows stretched like claws across the walls as Tyler moved deeper inside. His chest heaved with anticipation, dread coiling tight.
Then the voice came.
Welcome home.
He froze. The sound wasn't just in his head—it was all around him, vibrating through the walls, the floor.
And underneath it—faint, impossible—he heard Jackson's voice.
Don't listen. Come back to me.
Tyler pressed his palms against his ears, shaking his head violently. "You're not here. You're not—"
The laughter echoed, cruel.
He stumbled forward, desperate to find the source, but the darkness only closed tighter. He thought of Jackson—steady, grounding, the only warmth he'd let himself feel in weeks—and for a heartbeat, he clung to that voice like a lifeline.
But when the laughter roared again, it drowned everything else out.
Tyler collapsed to his knees, torn between two worlds: the voice that claimed him and the one that offered him a way back.