Heads close. Voices low. Sweat beaded on Ted’s forehead, catching the dim, yellow light of the cabin.

  Frankie’s finger hovered over the corridor map. The paper was a scrap torn from Dee Dee’s notebook, crumpled and smoothed flat again. Ted’s sketch was crude—shaky graphite lines smudged by nervous thumbs—but it was their only lifeline.

  “This passage,” Frankie said. Her voice was a scratch in the silence. “Two decks up, port side. Camella said the bridge access is still clear.”

  Dee Dee leaned in. Squinting. She pushed her glasses up her nose, her fingers trembling. “How old is this ship? 1940s? The layout… it’s a maze. A death trap.”

  “We don’t have another choice.” Frankie’s jaw tightened. A muscle jumped near her ear, a steady tic she couldn’t stop. “We get to the bridge. We find Vondra’s skin. Salt it. Burn it.”

  Simple. Impossible.

  Ted nodded. He gripped his iron pipe so hard his knuckles turned white. But his hazel eyes didn’t look at the map. They kept drifting to the door. The heavy wood groaned under the strain of the barricade.

  He was waiting. Shoulders hunched up toward his ears. The posture of a kid waiting for a punch. Or a scream.

  “Okay,” he said. His voice cracked. He cleared it. “Yeah. Look, let’s move. Now. Before—”

  The silence broke.

  Not with a bang. With a slide.

  A sound slithered into the room. Felt, more than heard. Like a bow drawn across a rusted saw.

  Ted froze.

  His mouth snapped shut. His eyes went wide, the pupils blowing out until the hazel was swallowed by black. He stopped breathing.

  Frankie watched him. “Ted?”

  He didn’t answer. He clapped his hands over his ears. Hard. A slap of flesh against flesh. His mouth moved, shaping a silent word.

  No.

  Frankie stepped toward him. Her boots scuffed the metal floor. “Ted? What is it?”

  He didn’t hear her. He was shaking. Vibrating. He stared at the corner of the room, at nothing. At something only he could see.

  “I’m fine,” he whispered. The words were rushed. Breathless. “I’m fine. Just… fine.”

  He shoved his trembling hands into his pockets. He hunched lower. Smaller.

  Then Dee Dee flinched.

  A sharp intake of breath. A gasp.

  Frankie spun around.

  Dee Dee grabbed the edge of the table. Her knuckles popped. Her face drained of color, turning the shade of old milk. Sickly white.

  She shoved her glasses up again. Blinking. Hard. Rapid fire.

  “Dee Dee?”

  Dee Dee’s breathing hitched. Sharp, short gasps. Hhh-uh. Hhh-uh. The sound of an asthma attack building. The sound of drowning on dry land.

  Frankie reached for her. “Dee Dee, look at me.”

  Dee Dee jerked back. She recoiled like Frankie’s hand was a branding iron. She hit the wall with a dull thud.

  “I’m okay. I’m—” Her voice cracked. Shattered. “I’m fine. I’m not… I’m not weak.”

  She wasn’t fine. Her chest heaved. Her eyes darted around the room, chasing invisible shadows.

  Frankie’s heart hammered against her ribs. What is happening?

  Then the air in the room grew heavy. Pressing down. Gravity doubled.

  The pressure built behind Frankie’s eyes. A headache. Instant and blinding.

  And the voice slid into her mind.

  It wasn’t a sound. It was a thought that didn’t belong to her. Cold. Oily. Sharp as a blade sliding between her vertebrae.

  Your fault.

  Frankie’s breath caught.

  You wanted this.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  The voice was Vondra’s. But it sounded like Frankie’s own worst fears, amplified, distorted.

  You wanted him. You dragged them here. Into the dark.

  Frankie’s hands clenched. Her nails bit into her palms. Pain centered her.

  Selfish girl. Hungry girl. You needed a buffer. A safety net. Now look.

  An image flashed in her mind. Ted, broken on the floor. Dee Dee, suffocating.

  Watch them drown because of you.

  “Stop it,” Frankie said. She ground the words out through gritted teeth.

  The pressure released. Just a fraction.

  Ted and Dee Dee stared at her. Their own private torments seemed to pause.

  “What?” Dee Dee asked. Her voice was small. A terrified squeak.

  Frankie shook her head. She pressed the heels of her palms against her temples, trying to push the intruder out. “She’s in my head. She’s… talking. Trying to break us apart.”

  Ted lowered his hands. He looked wrecked. “We hear it too,” he said. His voice was rough. Raw sandpaper. He rubbed at his eyes, smearing sweat and grime. “Like a broadcast. Inside.”

  Dee Dee stumbled forward. She grabbed Frankie’s wrist. Her fingers were ice cold. “Focus,” she whispered. “We have to ignore it. We have to focus on the plan.”

  Frankie nodded. She took a breath. The air tasted metallic.

  “Right. The plan.”

  She turned to the door. To the fourth member of their party.

  But the worst part wasn’t the voice.

  It was Damon.

  He stood near the far wall. Arms crossed over his chest. Still.

  Too still.

  Ted was vibrating with adrenaline. Dee Dee was hyperventilating. Frankie was ready to fight.

  But Damon?

  He looked like a statue carved from gray wax.

  His dark skin, usually bronze from the sun, was drained. Bloodless. He looked like something left out in the rain too long.

  “Damon?” Frankie asked.

  He didn’t flinch. He didn’t jump.

  He blinked. Once. Slowly.

  The eyelids came down and went up like shutters.

  When his eyes met hers, the connection wasn’t there. No spark. No warmth. No surfer grin.

  “We should reconsider,” he said.

  The words were his. The voice was his.

  But the tone.

  Flat. Dead. A recording played at the wrong speed.

  Frankie felt a chill crawl up her spine. It started at her tailbone and iced its way to her neck.

  “Reconsider what?” Ted asked. He moved closer to Dee Dee, stepping between her and the door. Protective instinct.

  Damon turned his head. Not his body. Just his head.

  He looked at the map on the table. His eyes tracked the pencil lines. Mechanical. Precise.

  “The route Camella suggested,” he said. “It’s exposed. Vondra will be waiting.”

  Frankie’s pulse spiked. “She told us it’s the only way. The bridge access.”

  “Did she?” Damon’s head tilted. A sharp, jerky motion. Like a bird examining a worm. “Or did she tell you what she wanted you to hear?”

  Dee Dee frowned. She adjusted her glasses again. “Damon, you’re not making sense. Camella helped us.”

  “I’m being logical.” No inflection. No emotion. “There’s another path. Through the cargo hold. Fewer corridors. Easier to defend.”

  Frankie looked down at the map.

  The cargo hold.

  She traced the area with her eyes. A massive, open space. A maze of crates, containers, and dark corners. Dead ends. Shadows everywhere.

  “That’s a trap,” Frankie said. “Camella said—”

  “Camella is a dumb child.”

  Damon’s lips curved.

  It was a smile. But it didn’t reach his eyes. The skin stretched too tight. It looked painful. Wrong.

  “A frightened ghost,” Damon said. “Why trust her over logic?”

  Ted stepped back. He raised the pipe slightly. “Dude. You’re freaking us out.”

  Damon didn’t look at Ted. He kept his eyes on Frankie.

  “I’m trying to keep us alive.”

  Frankie moved closer. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Thud. Thud. Thud.

  She searched his face. She looked for the boy she had laughed with on the deck. The boy she had surfed with.

  His features were blank. Smooth.

  His eyes were dull brown.

  No.

  Not dull.

  She angled her head. She caught the light from the overhead bulb—a flickering, yellow 40-watt misery.

  The reflection hit his eyes.

  Deep in the pupils—a flicker.

  Orange.

  Sick.

  It wasn’t a reflection. It was a light source.

  Like embers buried beneath ash. Pulsing.

  “Damon,” she said. Her voice was a whisper. “When did Vondra take you?”

  The smile widened. Just a fraction. The skin around his mouth turned white with the strain.

  “I don’t remember.”

  Liar.

  The word slammed into Frankie’s mind.

  He moved.

  A slow, deliberate step. He placed himself directly in front of the barricaded door. Blocking the exit.

  Frankie straightened her spine. She pushed the fear down. She locked it away.

  “We’re not going through the cargo hold,” she said.

  She slammed her finger onto the map.

  “We go this way,” she said. “The bridge. Fast.”

  “No.”

  The word was flat. Final. Dead.

  Damon didn’t blink. He stared at the map, but his eyes weren’t tracking the lines anymore. He was looking through it.

  “A foolish risk,” he said.

  Frankie froze.

  The voice was Damon’s. Deep. Familiar.

  But the cadence was not. The rhythm was ancient. Cold. Calculating.

  Damon looked up.

  The light caught his eyes full on.

  Deep in the pupils—the flicker grew.

  Orange. Sick. Burning.

  “She will be waiting for us there.”