I'm curled under the covers, listening to the wind howl, watching the occasional flash of lightning throw twisted shadows across the ceiling. Eventually, the exhaustion wins. My eyelids grow heavy, the sound of the storm fading into a dull, distant roar.

When I open my eyes again, the world is different. The air is cold, stale, and smells of rust and damp concrete. The walls are dark, glistening with some kind of moisture. It takes a moment to realize I'm not in my room anymore.

I'm in a boiler room. Pipes crisscross overhead like metal veins, some of them hissing steam into the gloom. The only light comes from a furnace at the far end, casting long, dancing shadows that seem to move on their own.

Then, from the deepest shadows, I hear it. A low, scratchy chuckle.

He grins. The muscles in his face pull tight, making the scars shift like something alive.