vs the DĆ©jĆ Vu
@brokenspyā
Everything was dark.Ā
In the past, Chuck had woken up a few times with a momentary disorientation, a video game controller in hand and a game on a kill screen or a bottle of something empty on the floor and him right down beside it in those particularly difficult months after Stanford. Now, even before Chuck opened his eyes, nothing made sense. His head pounded, like one of those hangover mornings waking up wishing the floor would swallow him up. His shoulders were sore, stiff, and pulled awkwardly behind his back. Head drooped, his neck, too, ached, and he groaned at he straightened it and blinked his eyes open.
It was a warehouse, moonlight creeping in through broken windows. A woman was across from him, her own head lolled to the side and her face obscured by curls of blonde hair. She was bound to a chair and it was in that precise moment that Chuck realized that he was, in fact, in a similar predicament. Oh god, he thought, trying to remind himself to breathe, Iām gonna be an episode of True Crime!
Chuck looked around, heart pounding, twisting as far as he could in the chair; the only thing but for the two of them that he could see in the dim were a few forgotten crates and scrap wood. No axe wielding serial killer. Not yet at least. He turned back to the woman.Ā āHey? Hey, are you alright?ā Please, please be alive.Ā āPlease wake up.ā
