"L-L…"
The sound barely made it past his lips. It felt wrong—like his own voice didn't belong to him anymore. His throat closed around the name, refusing to let it out, refusing to make it real.
But he forced it through.
"L… Leila…?"
The name cracked in the silence, a whisper swallowed by the thick, rotting air.
The torch trembled in his grasp. The fire flickered wildly, casting broken, shifting shadows over the storage unit's interior. But even in the dim, stuttering glow, he could see her.
Leila.
She was there.
His stomach lurched violently.
She lay motionless, half-consumed by darkness, her body sprawled across the blood-slicked floor. The torchlight barely reached her, leaving her features blurred in shadow, but he knew it was her.
He knew.
And yet—
'No. No, no, no. This—this isn't real. This isn't—'
His mind recoiled, refusing to accept what his eyes were telling him. But he couldn't stop moving. Couldn't stop seeing.
