I dedicate this book to J.L.H & A.

Every day I regret that I didn't come looking for you. I wish I had saved you.

Every day I regret the last thing I said to you.

I wish I hadn't let you go.

You both should have been my first choice.

I'm sorry.

---------

The stale, damp air hung heavy, tasting of mildew and something else? something metallic and faintly sickening. Evie's eyes flickered open to a blurry grayness, the pressure of cold, rough concrete against her cheek. Panic clawed at her throat, a silent scream trapped behind a curtain of disorientation. Her wrists were bound tightly, the rough rope biting into her skin. She tried to move, to sit up, but a dull ache shot through her head, a throbbing counterpoint to the rising fear. Where was she?

She was alone, enclosed in a small, square cell, the only light source a single bare bulb hanging precariously from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows that danced and writhed with an unnerving life of their own. The walls were slick with moisture, the air thick with the smell of decay. A chilling draft snaked through unseen cracks in the stone, raising goosebumps on her arms despite the clammy heat radiating from the concrete. The silence was absolute, broken only by the rhythmic drip, drip, drip of water echoing in the oppressive stillness. It was a silence that pressed down on her, suffocating, amplifying the growing terror in her heart.

A wave of nausea washed over her, a visceral reaction to the suffocating atmosphere and the throbbing in her head. She

squeezed her eyes shut, trying to conjure a memory, a lifeline to reality. Nothing. Only darkness, punctuated by the insistent dripping. She was adrift, lost in a silent, suffocating tomb. The cold seeped into her bones, a chilling reminder of her utter isolation.

Then, a flicker. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer in the

darkness beyond her cell. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the oppressive silence. The shimmer intensified, resolving into the ghostly glow of a monitor screen. The screen flickered erratically, displaying a series of cryptic symbols, fragmented words, and images that swam before her eyes, defying comprehension. A single sentence, however, burned itself into her memory:

"The debt you owe is due."

The words hung in the air, sharp and accusing, a cold hand gripping her heart. A debt? What debt? Her mind raced, searching frantically for answers, for a clue to her predicament. She wracked her brain, her memories fragmented and blurred, like shards of glass scattered across a dark floor. Images flashed before her eyes: the warmth of her home, the faces of her loved ones, the soft glow of a dying sunset... then, a sharp, jarring interruption: the piercing scream, the crimson stain spreading across the polished floor, the overwhelming wave of grief.

The memory hit her with the force of a physical blow, a gut-

wrenching reminder of the tragedy that still haunted her waking hours and plagued her sleep. She had failed. She had failed to save him. The crushing weight of that failure settled upon her, a suffocating blanket of guilt that left her breathless, paralyzed. The words on the screen resonated with a cruel accuracy, a twisted reflection of her own self-recrimination. The debt she owed was the debt of her failure

Meanwhile, in another cell, Mateo stared at the flickering monitor, the cryptic message a searing brand on his soul. His hands, rough and calloused from years of hard labor, trembled as he strained to decipher the jumbled text. The words were tailored to him, twisting the knife of his guilt, recalling the reckless choices, the dark deeds that had landed him behind bars. The years he'd spent in prison had only offered a meager respite from the constant torment of his past; now it returned, amplified and distorted, a relentless ghost from his past.

He felt the familiar chill of fear, a chilling precursor to the panic that threatened to engulf him. He was trapped, alone in this

claustrophobic cage, the walls closing in on him, the air growing thick and heavy with the weight of his mistakes. He was a prisoner of his own making, a captive of his conscience. His past, usually a shadow haunting the corners of his mind, was now cast in sharp, brutal relief, replaying every transgression, every painful memory. The facility's malevolence wasn't just a physical confinement; it was

a psychological invasion, a ruthless exhibition of his deepest regrets.

Further down the corridor, Juno, the queen of social media, the epitome of effortless beauty and carefree charm, found herself confronted with the same fragmented message. But for her, the words spoke of betrayal, of manipulation, of hollow relationships built on a foundation of lies. The carefully constructed fa�ade she presented to the world shattered like brittle glass, revealing the insecure, vulnerable woman beneath. The message, tailored to her, was a stark reminder of the pain she had inflicted on others, her actions exposed in cold, hard truths.

The charm, the practiced smile, were gone, replaced by a raw fear that clawed at her composure, shaking the carefully crafted image she so desperately tried to maintain. She was no longer the invincible influencer, the trendsetter, the idol of thousands. Here, stripped bare, her guilt manifested as a terrifying hallucination, a relentless barrage of accusatory faces, each a symbol of the pain she had caused.

In another cell, Dr. Vale, his distinguished face etched with worry, grappled with the same message, a chilling reminder of his unethical actions, of the compromised research that had cost lives. The facility's message was not simply a list of his misdeeds, but an amplified representation of his moral failings. The weight of his guilt pressed down on him, a mountain he could not overcome, every questionable decision replaying in his mind, in excruciating detail.

His expertise, usually a source of pride and confidence, now felt like a curse, a testament to his failures. He could diagnose the illness he was suffering, but the cure eluded him. It was not physical, but mental, a torment created by the very entity that held them captive. This wasn't a simple confinement, but a brutal reckoning with his conscience.

Finally, Cora, the architect of this grim charade, watched the monitor displaying a message as cold and calculated as herself. But her message was different. It was not a reminder of her guilt, but confirmation of her triumph. A twisted smile played on her lips as she absorbed the personalization, a confirmation of the meticulous plan she had meticulously executed. The facility itself was a testament to her cold intellect and her ability to manipulate minds.

The flickering light cast long shadows on her face, accentuating the sharp lines of her features, highlighting her cold composure. She was the orchestrator, the puppeteer pulling the strings of this elaborate game. Yet, even in her triumph, a hint of unease flickered in her eyes, a subtle tremor that hinted at the complexity of her motives, a suggestion of fear beneath her mask of self-assuredness.

This was not simply revenge, but something far more insidious, something far darker.

The malfunctioning mechanisms of the facility began to shift, groan, and creak. The individual cells, separate and secure, started to fail, opening up to the central chamber. The five strangers, each wrestling with their own demons, were thrown together, the first meeting as terrifying as the oppressive environment they shared. The oppressive darkness of the facility was a mirror reflecting their internal turmoil. Their dark descent had just begun.