I moved quickly, my heartbeat loud in my ears.
Room 17.
Third floor.
Sara's room.
The hallway felt too quiet, too still, like the air itself was watching me. I knocked once, twice—then harder, impatience clawing at me.
When the door finally creaked open, I barely recognized the person standing there.
Sara.
Or at least, the shell of her.
Her face was pale, her eyes swollen and red, as if she had cried herself into oblivion. But it wasn't just the crying.
It was the emptiness.
The way her shoulders sagged like the weight of her own existence was too much to carry.
The way her eyes looked past me, not at me.
Like she wasn't all the way here.
Like she had been hollowed out.
And then I saw them.
The small, dark marks on her neck.
Twin punctures.
Like mine.
A fresh wave of nausea rolled through me, but I swallowed it down.
She tried to shut the door.
I stuck my foot in.
