Chapter 205

Chapter 205
Elora

I heard movement—footsteps rushing toward me from the left. I pivoted, raising the clipboard, muscles coiled to strike—

Nothing. The footsteps stopped as suddenly as they'd started.

Confusion flickered through my mind for half a second before pain exploded across my right cheek. The slap came from nowhere, vicious and precise, snapping my head to the side hard enough to make my vision blur. I stumbled, swinging the clipboard wildly in the direction the blow had come from—

But she was already gone.

Before I could recover, a fist drove into my stomach like a battering ram. All the air left my lungs in a rush. I doubled over, gasping, staggering backward as my body screamed in protest.

"Fuck!" The word came out as a wheeze. "How—how are you hitting me so accurately? You can't see me either!"

Her laughter echoed from somewhere to my right—or was it left? The acoustics in the darkness made it impossible to tell.

"Well, Elora," she said, voice dripping with amusement, "don't forget—I spent the first dozen years of my life in darkness." A pause, letting that sink in. "That shitty apartment we rented? Three flights up, narrow stairwell, broken windows. Never had lights. Half the time, no electricity at all. Darker than this. So much darker."

The sound of movement again, circling.

"You know how I learned to walk up those stairs without breaking my neck? Trial and error. Lots of error." Her voice carried a twisted nostalgia. "Tripped so many times I lost count. Bloodied my knees, split my lip, cracked my head against the railing more times than I care to remember. But eventually? Eventually I learned. Learned to feel my way through shadows like they were solid ground. Learned to trust sound over sight. Learned that darkness isn't something to fear—it's something to master."

Closer now. I could almost feel her presence.

"People like you—people who grew up in the light, who had hallways that glowed at night, who never had to wonder if you'd fall down the stairs in the dark—you're fucking helpless when it's taken away. But me?" A soft, satisfied exhale. "I was forged in it. "

The story should've stirred something—pity, maybe, or understanding. Instead, all I felt was revulsion crawling up my throat. She wore her suffering like a badge of honor, like it justified everything she'd become. Like her shitty childhood gave her the right to torture people in the dark.

I lunged toward where I thought her voice was coming from, swinging the clipboard in a wide arc—

Empty air.

And then a foot crashed into my side, sending me sprawling to the floor. Pain radiated through my ribs as I hit the linolium hard, the clipboard clattering away from my grasp.

I pushed myself up, gasping, tasting blood. My head was spinning, my body screaming at me to stay down.

But staying down meant dying.

I forced myself to think through the pain. Every time I'd tried to find her, to chase her, I'd hit nothing. She could hear me coming. Could sense every move before I made it.

But there was one moment—one single moment—when I knew exactly where she was.

When she was hitting me.

The thought made my stomach turn, but it was the only option left. I couldn't find her in the darkness. Couldn't track her by sound. But when her fist connected, when her foot landed—in that split second of contact, I'd know exactly where she was.

I just had to be ready. Had to endure it long enough to grab her.

I stayed crouched, breathing hard, waiting.

Her footsteps circled, predatory.

"What's wrong, Elora?" Her voice drifted through the darkness. "Finally realized you can't win?"

I didn't answer.

The footsteps came closer. Stopped.

I braced myself, every muscle in my body tensing—not to dodge, not to block, but to endure.

This was it. The only chance I'd get.

Then—impact.

Her fist slammed into my jaw, pain exploding through my skull like a bomb going off. White-hot agony radiated through every nerve, my vision going white even in the darkness, the taste of blood flooding my mouth.

But I didn't fall back.

Instead, I lunged forward into the pain, toward where her arm had to be, where her body was. My hands found fabric, then flesh—her torso, solid and real. I wrapped my arms around her and locked them tight, holding on with everything I had, ignoring the screaming protest of my battered body, ignoring the way my jaw throbbed with each heartbeat.

Got you.

"What the—" She tried to twist away, but I squeezed harder, my arms like a vice around her waist.

For one glorious second, I had her trapped. Couldn't hit me properly. Couldn't get away.

I shifted my weight, preparing to slam her into the floor, to use my body weight to—

"God," she said, voice cold and mocking even as she struggled against my grip. "So this is your grand strategy? Trading hits like some desperate animal? How pathetically noble."

A sharp, cruel laugh cut through the darkness.

"Too bad for you—"

Then I heard it—the soft metallic whisper of something being drawn.

Her other hand. The one I hadn't pinned.

The blade came down.

I twisted hard, throwing my weight to the side even as I tried to maintain my grip on her. The blade missed the main strike—barely—but I felt the sharp, burning kiss of metal as it sliced across my upper arm. Not deep. Not fatal. But enough to make me gasp, enough to send hot blood streaming down my sleeve

"Of course you'd have another fucking trick!" I snarled through gritted teeth, trying to tighten my hold even as blood began soaking hot and immediate through my sleeve.

"Oh, I snagged a surgical scalpel while you were busy stumbling around in the dark earlier," she said, voice breathless but dripping with mockery. "Didn't notice me pocket it? Well—can't blame you for that. Hard to keep track of things when you can't see, isn't it?"

My grip weakened. Just for a second.

That was all she needed.

She twisted free with brutal efficiency, shoving me backward. I hit the floor hard, my injured arm screaming in protest as I clutched at the bleeding wound.

"You know what?" Her voice came from somewhere above me, slightly breathless but carrying a note of finality. "This was almost entertaining for a moment there. Almost made me think you had a chance." A soft, disappointed laugh. "But I suppose every game has to end sometime."

I heard movement—fabric rustling, then the distinct clink of glass. A vial. She was pulling something from her pocket. Then came the soft scrape of plastic—a fresh syringe being unwrapped, the quiet sound of liquid being drawn into the barrel.

"Now then," she said, her footsteps approaching with slow, deliberate confidence. "Let's get back to my original plan, shall we? First, the paralytic—can't have you thrashing around and making a mess of things." A pause, her voice dropping to something colder, almost satisfied. "Time to finish what I started, Elora. Properly this time."