Chapter 12

The hallway outside was still pitch black, so I used my phone's torch to sweep the walls like I was on a ghost-hunting show. Eventually, I found the storage room, which was basically a hoarder's fever dream. Tools, nails, screws, boxes—an entire DIY graveyard dumped in a single corner. The pliers were buried somewhere in the back like they owed someone money. I stretched up, teetering on my toes, reaching for them like I was auditioning for Swan Lake: Apocalypse Edition. Just as I grabbed them, my foot rolled over something suspiciously round and untrustworthy. I yelped, lost my balance, and flailed like a human car dealership balloon mid-windstorm. There were nails all over the floor. Actual nails. Pointy and plentiful. The sort of thing that would absolutely ruin my chances at open-toed heels ever again. But the pain never came. Instead, a pair of strong arms wrapped around my waist and hauled me upright like I weighed less than a bag of crisps. "Careful," he muttered, his voice low.