Frank woke up with a dull ache pulsing behind his left eye.
Stone beneath his back. Dust in his mouth. Rope around his wrists.
And a circle of cloaked silhouettes standing just outside the ring of flickering torchlight.
"Always with the dramatic lighting," he muttered, voice hoarse.
A boot nudged his side—not rough, but just enough to remind him he wasn't alone.
"You're awake."
He rolled onto his side and caught sight of Juliet—chained, not tied, back to a rusted pillar. Her lip was split. Her glare could've melted iron.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Peachy," she said. "You?"
"Oh, you know. Great ambiance. Five-star service."
She huffed. "Still doing the sarcasm thing?"
"It's how I process being kidnapped for a second time this month."
One of the cultists stepped forward, lowering his hood. Pale skin. Scar along his chin. He didn't look mystical—just tired, like someone who believed hard enough that he didn't need answers anymore.
