#01 Angel: Messenger

06: The Caged Den

Date: Still 3rd or maybe 4th April 2024 - Time: I have no idea??

Consciousness returned grudgingly, a slow, murky crawl back to reality. The throb in my head pulsed like a siren, echoing the moment darkness had claimed me. Fluttering open, my eyes squinted against the dim light, the surroundings barely lit by the ghostly glow from screens mounted on the walls. Each flickered ominously, branded with the DarkHorse logo—a stark, stylized horse that seemed to snarl in shadow and light, beneath it, the initials 'DH' glaring coldly at me.

The realization of my bound wrists sent a jolt of panic through me. Rough ropes bit into my skin, binding me to a cold, unforgiving chair. I swallowed the fear rising in my throat, each breath a strained effort against the constraining ropes.

Scanning the room, my gaze took in the despair of the place—the peeling paint on the damp walls, the steady drip of water from an old, rusty pipe, and the musty air that hung heavy around me. It was a prison dressed in neglect, each detail a note in its macabre symphony.

Silence loomed heavy, broken intermittently by the drip of water, mocking my plight. I strained my ears, desperate for any sound that might hint at where I was or what horrors awaited me. But there was nothing—only the echo of my own racing heartbeat and the drip-drip-drip that seemed to count down the seconds of my captivity.

Time blurred, stretching thin in the gloom. The screens kept their silent watch, the DarkHorse emblem a constant, menacing sentinel. My thoughts spun—a chaotic mix of fear, anger, and steely resolve. I had to escape, to warn the others, to stop whatever nefarious plan DarkHorse harboured. But first, survival was paramount.

The door creaked ominously, slicing through the gloom with a sliver of light from the hallway. My muscles tensed, a primal, instinctive reaction. Three figures entered, each step resonating with threat—a trio of towering menace. Behind them, Scarlett's silhouette materialized, a chilling grace about her. Two more—her lieutenants, perhaps—trailed, completing this formidable entourage.

As they fanned out into the room, the air thickened with the weight of impending confrontation. Scarlett fixed me with a look of smug triumph, her approach measured, the click of her boots on concrete a steady, dreadful rhythm.

"Welcome, Ashlee," her voice slithered through the dark, silken and sinister. "We've been expecting you."

With a subtle gesture, she dismissed her underlings. The door thudded shut, sealing me in with her, the dim flickers of light casting deep shadows across her face.

Her smile was devoid of warmth, a chilling curve of lips. "I'm Scarlett," she introduced herself, each word dripping with false courtesy. "Should I call you Angel?" The way she spat 'Angel' was laced with scorn, mocking the very notion.

Facing her, my own fear gnawed at me, but I masked it with a weak attempt at humour. "You can call me whatever you like, but 'Your Majesty' kind of has a nice ring to it." My voice, meant to be light, betrayed a tremor of fear.

Her grin widened, not with amusement but with a cruel anticipation. "Oh, I think 'prisoner' might suit you better right now. How are those ropes feeling?" Her tone was playful but deadly.

I tugged at my bindings in a futile gesture, feeling the rough fibbers scrape against my skin. "Not great," I admitted, trying to keep my voice steady despite the growing dread.

"You could let me out of these ropes, you know. They're killing my wrists," I said, trying to maintain some semblance of bravado.

Scarlett took a step closer, her presence overwhelming. Without warning, her fist connected with my face, the impact snapping my head back. Pain radiated through my skull, sharp and immediate, a cruel reminder of my vulnerability.