The guards half-carried, half-dragged Kyle down a narrow corridor, his feet stumbling beneath him as his wounded arm throbbed with each heartbeat. Blood had soaked through the hastily applied bandages, warm and sticky against his skin. They stopped at a nondescript door—plain white, no markings—and one of them punched a code into a keypad. The lock clicked open with a mechanical whir.
Inside was a room that looked more like a boutique hotel suite than a holding cell. A queen-sized bed dominated the space, dressed in crisp white linens that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. A small sitting area occupied one corner: plush armchair, side table, a reading lamp casting warm amber light. Minimalist artwork hung on the walls—abstract swirls in muted grays and blues. The hardwood floor gleamed, spotless. There was even a small en-suite bathroom visible through a half-open door, all marble and chrome.
