The A Team

The first thing she noticed was the cold. Not the crisp chill of a winter morning, nor the fleeting bite of an autumn breeze. This cold was deeper, more insidious. It seeped into her skin, wrapped around her bones, settled into the marrow itself. It was the kind of cold that did not simply exist outside of her but had burrowed its way inside, making a home in her flesh. It was the kind of cold that carried the weight of emptiness.

A shudder wracked her body as she stirred, her muscles aching as though she had lain in place for an eternity. Her fingers twitched against the uneven surface beneath her, rough and unyielding. Every movement sent small shocks of pain through her stiff limbs, as if they had been frozen in place and were only now regaining life. Her head throbbed, a dull, insistent pounding that seemed to reverberate through her skull. A strange, metallic taste coated her tongue, thick and acrid, like she had bitten down on a coin in her sleep. The taste made her stomach churn, nausea curling at the edges of her awareness.

Slowly, hesitantly, she forced her eyes open. The light stabbed through the haze clouding her mind, too bright, too sharp. She winced, blinking rapidly, her vision swimming as the world around her sharpened into focus.

Rocks. A vast, jagged expanse stretched around her, an ocean of gray and black stone fractured by deep crevices and sharp ridges. The surface beneath her was rough, uneven, digging into the tender skin of her arms and legs. Dust clung to her lips, dry and bitter, coating her throat as she swallowed.

The air was thick, oppressive, carrying the scent of damp earth and something faintly metallic, something wrong. It filled her lungs like a heavy fog, pressing down on her chest, making each breath feel like a battle. And beyond it all, a drop.

Her breath hitched as she realized how close she was to the edge. The ground beneath her ended in a sheer cliff face, plunging into an abyss of darkness. The void yawned before her, endless and hungry, a whisper of vertigo tugging at the edges of her mind. A sickening sensation rolled through her stomach, as if the very ground beneath her threatened to give way at any moment, to send her spiralling down into nothingness.

A desperate, primal instinct took hold, and she tried to scramble back but she couldn’t. Chains.

Cold iron shackled her wrists, thick and unyielding, the links extending behind her to a massive rock. The cuffs dug into her skin, raw welts forming where she had unknowingly struggled in her unconscious state. The metal was ice against her flesh, a cruel contrast to the heat of panic flaring through her veins. Her chest tightened as she yanked at them, pulling with all the strength she could muster. The iron refused to budge. The links rattled, the sound echoing through the emptiness around her, a hollow, mocking reminder of her captivity.

Her breathing turned shallow, her pulse hammering against her ribs, the world around her blurring at the edges. The ground seemed to tilt beneath her, the sky above spinning wildly. Her fingers curled into fists, nails digging into her palms, trying to ground herself, trying to cling to something real. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to wake up, to shake off this nightmare. But when she opened them again, the scene remained the same. The air was too real. The weight of the chains was too heavy. This was no dream. Then, movement.

A flicker at the edge of her vision. Her breath caught as she turned her head, squinting against the haze that still clouded her mind. In the distance, shadowy figures stood clustered together. Their shapes were blurred, indistinct, wavering like heat ripples on asphalt. They seemed unreal, yet their presence pressed upon her like a physical force, their silent observation suffocating.

"Help!" Her voice cracked, raw and desperate. "Please, help me!" The figures did not respond. They remained still, watching. No rush of footsteps, no concerned voices calling back to her. Instead, they shifted slightly, their murmurings carrying across the air in strange, distant echoes. It was as if she were listening through water, their words distorted beyond recognition. A single figure stepped forward.

From its hands, a spark ignited, flickering to life like a match struck in the dark. The tiny flame twisted unnaturally, writhing like something alive. And then it moved. The fire slithered toward her, winding across the ground in thin, glowing veins, illuminating the cracks in the rock beneath her. It spread outward in a perfect circle, trapping her within a ring of flame. The heat rose quickly, the air shimmering with it. The dry scent of burning earth filled her nose. Her panic spiked. "No! Please! You have to help me!"

The flames surged higher, licking at her skin without quite touching, their glow casting long, jagged shadows around her. The smoke curled thickly in the air, stinging her eyes, coiling into her lungs like a serpent. Her breathing became ragged, broken by choking gasps.

"Why are you doing this?!" she sobbed, wrenching at the chains, her voice barely audible over the roaring fire. The figures did not answer. They stood as they had before, distant and unmoved. They watched, speaking among themselves as if discussing something trivial, something ordinary. As if she were not burning before them.

The heat intensified. Her skin felt as if it were splitting, peeling away under invisible hands. Pain bloomed across her body in waves, a searing agony that reached down to her very bones. Her screams shattered the air, piercing and raw, but the watchers did not react. They did not move. They only observed. She thrashed against the chains, her body convulsing with the sheer force of her suffering. Her vision blurred at the edges, darkening. The fire swallowed her whole, wrapping her in its merciless embrace, consuming everything she was.

And then...

Nothing. A sharp gasp tore from her lips as her body lurched upright. Her lungs ached as if she had been drowning, her skin damp with sweat. Her bed. She was in her bed.

The sheets were tangled around her legs, her pillow damp beneath her cheek. The dim glow of the streetlight outside her window filtered through the thin curtains, casting fractured patterns on the walls. Her limbs felt heavy, weighted down by an exhaustion that ran deeper than mere sleep. The panic still clawed at her chest, her heart slamming against her ribs as if it had been moments, not an entire night, since she had burned alive.

Her hands trembled as she reached for the nightstand, knocking over an empty glass. A prescription bottle lay on its side, its contents spilled out across the wood. Her breath caught in her throat. The world around her wavered. A creeping numbness began to spread through her limbs, a cold that was not external but internal deep, consuming.

Something was wrong.

She tried to move, to reach for her phone, to call for help—but her body was sluggish, uncooperative. Her vision darkened at the edges, closing in, until the room became nothing but a pinprick of fading light. The figures were gone. The fire was gone. But the weight in her chest, the suffocating, inescapable emptiness—they remained. And then, there was nothing.