Nicky immediately started shaking in fear.
It wasn't a subtle tremble—it was violent, convulsive, the kind of shaking that rattled his teeth together and made his knees knock against the underside of the metal table. His hands, splayed flat on the cold surface, were no longer his own; they quivered, betraying every ounce of composure he had fought so hard to maintain.
His breath came in short, ragged gasps, each one catching in his throat. The fluorescent lights above him hummed mercilessly, casting a pale, sickly glow over his pale, sickly face. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickled down his temples, dripped into his eyes, and he didn't even dare to blink it away.
He was done for.
The thought echoed through his skull like a death knell. His mind raced through every possible scenario, every desperate escape route, every lie he could tell, every plea he could make—and each one ended the same way. With him dead. With his body dumped somewhere no one would ever find it.
