- Sloane Pierce:
When I come back to my consciousness, it feels like the world is spinning too fast and I've fallen behind. My eyelids are heavy, the kind of heavy that feels glued shut, and every muscle in my body aches like I've been dragged down a flight of stairs.
There's a pounding at the back of my skull—deep, rhythmic, nauseating—and it takes me a moment to realize it's not just in my head. It's in the floor too, a steady bass thump that vibrates up through the mattress and into my bones.
The air is thick with the smell of smoke, leather, and faint motor oil. Not the sharp, sterile tang of a hospital like I half expected.
No. This is something else entirely—gritty, mechanical, familiar in a way that makes my skin crawl.
The lighting is dim, golden from a single lamp sitting crooked on a small table. Dust motes drift lazily through the faint glow. There's a leather jacket thrown over a chair nearby, its sleeves creased and worn, smelling faintly of gasoline and rain.
