Marcus could do only one thing now—stumble blindly through the suffocating dark, chasing the sinful rhythm that filled the room.
Plap~ plap~ plap~
The wet, obscene sound bounced off the walls like some twisted metronome of madness.
"Wh-where are you, Lily?" he called, voice breaking somewhere between panic and heartbreak.
Plap-plap-plap!
He staggered toward the corner where it came from, arms outstretched, knocking into furniture like a drunk ghost. But just as his fingers brushed the wall, the sound stopped—dead silent.
Then, from behind him—
Plap~ plap~ plap~!
Marcus spun around so fast he nearly fell. The sounds were jumping—bouncing from one end of the room to another like the world's most perverted game of hide-and-seek. He couldn't track them, couldn't think.
He was weak.
He was drunk.
He was utterly doomed.
And with no light, no vision, no clue—he was cooked like a blind man lost in a thunderstorm of filth.
Then, just like before—
Flick.
