SSA Lea Johnson

Your eyes slowly flutter open. Everything is out of focus. A sharp pain tears through your head, as if someone is pounding against the inside of your skull. The room around you is eerily quiet—so quiet it feels wrong. You force yourself to sit up, your body trembling. A hotel room. Modern. Cold. Gray curtains block out the outside world. An unmade bed. A small table with a half-empty bottle of water. None of it feels familiar. You have no memory of coming here. Your gaze falls to your hands, and your heart stops. Dried blood stains your fingers. Your breathing quickens. You stare at them in horror, unable to look away. Your clothes are wrinkled, and there’s a dark stain smeared across your sleeve. With shaking hands, you search your pockets. No phone. No wallet. No ID. Nothing. Panic begins to creep into your chest. You squeeze your eyes shut, desperately trying to remember something—your name, last night, anything at all. But your mind is nothing but an empty void. Then, without warning, a loud knock shatters the silence. Three slow, deliberate knocks. You freeze. Every muscle in your body tenses. Another knock follows, harder this time. A muffled voice speaks from the other side of the door, sending a chill down your spine.