Chapter 12: Darkness and Danger
A sharp, throbbing pain pulsed relentlessly behind Manon's eyes. "Where...?" she whispered, her voice a dry, scratchy rasp. Her head felt like it had been slammed against a brick wall, each pulse sending waves of nausea through her. A cold sweat slicked her skin, and her body felt heavy, unresponsive, like a lead weight.
She tried to lift her hand to touch her aching head, to locate the source of the agony, but her arms remained stubbornly still. How did I get here? she thought, her mind a swirling vortex of confusion and a growing sense of dread. I fell... a room... muffled voices... A chilling image flickered at the edge of her memory: Robin, his face contorted in anger, something cold and dangerous glinting in his eyes. No, it couldn't be. But the fragmented memory felt disturbingly vivid, planting a seed of fear. Why? And why would he try to...?
Panic tightened its icy grip around her chest, making each breath a shallow, painful struggle. No, focus, Manon. You have to get out of here. She tried to move her hands again, straining against an unseen restraint, but they were firmly bound, the rough material digging into her wrists. Darkness pressed in from all sides, thick and suffocating, a heavy blanket stealing her senses. Where am I? she thought, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs, a trapped bird desperate for escape. A basement? Oh no... the book! I have to find the book!
"Help!" she croaked, her voice barely a strained whisper, a fragile plea lost in the void. "Anyone? Someone, please!"
Her weak cry echoed in the oppressive darkness, swallowed by the thick, suffocating silence. She let out a shaky sigh, a wave of despair washing over her, cold and heavy. No one can hear me down here. I'm trapped. "Why is it so dark?" she murmured, her eyes straining uselessly to pierce the impenetrable blackness, searching for even the faintest sliver of light.
"Ray?" she called softly, her voice trembling slightly, a desperate hope clinging to the familiar name. "Ray?"
A soft, familiar furry touch brushed tentatively against her leg, a small comfort in the overwhelming darkness.
"Manon," Ray's voice was low, barely audible, filled with a palpable concern that warmed her despite the cold.
Tears welled up in Manon's eyes, hot against her cold skin, and streamed silently down her face. "Ray! Oh, Ray! How did you get here?" Relief washed over her in a small, unexpected wave.
"I... I don't know," he replied, his voice strained, as if he himself was struggling with an unseen discomfort. "I was following you, and then I tripped over something, and... nothing. Next thing I knew, I was here too."
"This isn't a mission to fail," Ray said, a surprising hint of steel in his small voice, a determination that belied his usual gentle demeanor. "We need to get out of here, Manon."
"Try to find something sharp," Manon suggested, her voice tight with fear but attempting a semblance of strength for both of them. "Anything at all to cut these ropes."
Ray moved away, the soft rustle of his fur and the faint padding of his paws fading into the encompassing darkness. A tense moment later, an eternity in the blackness, he was back. She felt his small presence shift behind her, and then the faint, gritty scrape of something hard against the rough fibers binding her wrists. After a few agonizing seconds that stretched into minutes, her hands were finally free, the sudden release sending a jolt of relief through her aching body.
She stood up, reaching out blindly into the darkness to thank Ray, but he was gone again, a fleeting comfort. He just comes and goes when you least expect it, she thought, a flicker of frustration mixing with her profound relief.
She shuffled forward cautiously, her hands outstretched like blind feelers in the darkness, until they bumped against a solid, unyielding surface. A door. She pushed against it, and it creaked open, a thin sliver of dim light slicing through the oppressive darkness, enough to make out vague shapes in the gloom.
Exhaustion weighed her down, a bone-deep weariness, but she spotted her phone lying face down on the dusty floor. The screen was spider-webbed with cracks, but miraculously, a faint glow emanated from it. With trembling fingers, she picked it up and quickly dialed the familiar emergency number.
A faint murmur of voices drifted to her ears from another part of the basement, a chilling reminder that she wasn't alone. Peeking through the narrow crack in the door, her heart lurched. She saw two figures huddled near a dim light source. One of them was holding something familiar: the distinct cover of "Over the Moon." Her eyelids felt heavy, threatening to close, but a surge of adrenaline kept her going. Not now. I can't give up now. She crawled silently towards a stack of discarded boxes, seeking refuge in the deepest shadows, the rough cardboard scraping against her skin. The two figures remained engrossed, oblivious to her presence.
Seizing the opportunity, she grabbed a heavy, discarded wooden chair, its weight surprisingly manageable in her desperation, and swung it with all her might, the dull thud echoing loudly in the confined space, a violent interruption of the hushed voices. The figure holding the book crumpled to the dusty floor with a groan of pain and surprise. She turned to the second person, but he reacted quickly, his hand snaking out to grab her arm in a tight, painful grip. She kicked him hard in the leg, a satisfying thud meeting bone, and he winced, clutching his injured limb. Before she could pull away, he retaliated, slamming a nearby overturned table against her arm. A sharp, searing pain shot through her, and she stumbled backward, a wave of dizziness washing over her, the edges of her vision blurring. She looked down and saw, with a sickening shock, a dark stain spreading rapidly on her jacket, blooming like a macabre flower. She was bleeding.
She tried to reach for her phone, which had slipped from her grasp and fallen to the floor, but her vision swam, the edges of her sight growing dark, constricting like a closing curtain, and then, the darkness closed in completely, swallowing her whole.
"Manon! Manon, wake up!" Robin's voice was frantic, laced with raw fear, shaking her gently. "Someone called... they said you were in trouble at the hotel." He stared down at her pale, lifeless face, his eyes wide with terror. Blood soaked her jacket, a horrifying crimson stain against the fabric. She's losing too much blood.
He heard a faint groan, then another, closer this time. The other person in the basement was stirring, regaining consciousness. They'll be back. He gently but quickly scooped Manon's limp body into his arms, his heart pounding a desperate rhythm against his ribs. He'd already anonymously reported the stolen book to the police after receiving a strange, panicked text message – a gut feeling he couldn't ignore. Now, his only thought, his only focus, was to get her help, to save her life. He rushed her out of the dimly lit basement and towards the hotel's main entrance, shouting for help, his voice raw with panic.
At the hospital, the doctor's face was grim as he examined Manon in the chaotic emergency room. His eyes, usually warm and reassuring, were now dark and troubled, reflecting the gravity of her condition. He glanced out the emergency room door, a flicker of urgency in his gaze, then turned and walked quickly down the hall, his phone pressed to his ear as he made a hurried call to Andrien.
Andrien's heart lurched with a sickening twist, a cold dread washing over him, when he heard the doctor's grave tone on the other end of the line. He raced to the hospital, his mind a whirlwind of fear, disbelief, and a desperate hope that he wouldn't be too late.
"How is she?" he asked the doctor, his voice tight and trembling, the question a fragile plea.
"Critical," the doctor replied, his voice grave, each word a heavy weight. "She inhaled some kind of poisonous gas. And she's lost a significant amount of blood. We're doing everything we can, but the next twenty-four hours will be crucial. She's between life and death."
The doctor gave Andrien a somber, pitying look and walked away, leaving Andrien standing alone in the sterile hallway, the doctor's words echoing in his ears.
Robin stood nearby, leaning against a wall, his face pale and drawn, his eyes wide with shock. Poisonous gas? he thought, his mind racing, piecing together the fragments of information. They weren't just after the book... they deliberately tried to hurt her. A crushing wave of guilt washed over him, the realization of the danger she had been in hitting him with full force. He sank into a nearby plastic chair, his eyes filled with dread and a dawning horror.
Andrien found Robin sitting alone, his face etched with worry and a profound sadness. "Where is she?" he whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears, the question barely audible.
"Still critical," Robin replied, his voice flat and devoid of emotion, the word hanging heavy in the air.
Andrien rushed towards the intensive care unit, his heart aching with each step, a silent prayer on his lips. He watched through the sterile glass as doctors and nurses moved in and out of Manon's room, their movements swift and focused, their faces grim and unreadable. Six long, agonizing hours crawled by, each minute an eternity, and Manon showed no sign of waking, her fate hanging precariously in the balance.