Chapter 3

Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. Time blurred.

The cut on my arm throbbed relentlessly. Blood continued to flow, a steady, sickening stream.

My sleeve was soaked. The floor beneath was dark and sticky.

I felt cold. So cold.

A wave of dizziness washed over me. My vision swam.

I had to stop the bleeding.

I strained against the ropes, twisting my body, trying to reach the wound, to apply pressure.

Useless. The ropes were too tight.

Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at me.

My eyes darted around the dim cabin. Was there anything? Anything at all?

Then I saw it. My old backpack, tossed in a corner when Mike dragged me in.

My phone. It had to be in there.

Hope, a fragile butterfly, fluttered in my chest.

If I could just... reach it.

I pulled, strained, every muscle screaming. The chair creaked ominously.

My fingers, numb and clumsy, fumbled with the zipper of the side pocket where I always kept it.

There. The cool, smooth case of my phone.

With agonizing slowness, I managed to drag it out, almost dropping it a dozen times.

My hands were slick with blood. The screen smeared red as I tried to dial.

Mike. I had to call Mike. He had to understand.

The call connected. It rang once, twice.

"What?" His voice was sharp, impatient.

"Mike... please..." My voice was a hoarse whisper. "You have to... come back. I'm... bleeding too much."

Silence. Then, faintly, I heard Sophia's voice in the background.

"Is that Emily, Mikey? Is she trying to ruin our trip already?" Her tone was cloyingly sweet, laced with feigned concern.

"She says she's bleeding a lot," Mike said, his voice flat.

"Oh, that drama queen," Sophia sighed. "She's always exaggerating. Remember that papercut last year? She acted like she was dying."

"Stop faking it, Emily," Mike's voice came back, hard as nails. "You're just trying to get attention. Sophia needs to focus on her prep. Don't bother us again."

"No... Mike... it's real... I feel... so weak..."

"Save your breath," he snapped. "You stay there until Sophia's exams are done. Got it?"

The line went dead.

Tears streamed down my face, mixing with the blood on my cheek.

He didn't believe me. He wouldn't help me.

My gaze fell on a small, forgotten bulge in the inner pocket of my jeans, something I'd tucked away months ago and forgotten.

I managed to work it out.

A Swiss Army knife.

The one Mike had given me for my sixteenth birthday. "For protection, Em," he'd said, ruffling my hair. "So you can always take care of yourself."

The irony was a bitter taste in my mouth.

The man who taught me to protect myself was now the one trying to kill me.

His words from back then echoed in my head, a cruel mockery.

"You're my little sister, Emily. I'll always look out for you."

Always.