"I'm all for chilling out, but you seem to have taken the meaning a bit too literally."
Cold.
The chill seeps through Iris's clothes and underneath her skin, burrowing deep into her flesh and bones. It's everywhere, overwhelming and all-encompassing.
The blood loss doesn't help. Half an hour ago, when Gianni Santini and his friends locked her in the meat locker, she'd been able to feel the sticky wetness of blood making her shirt cling to shoulder, but a dangerous numbness has taken over now, drowsiness clouding her mind and dulling any sensation except for the cold. She shouldn't fall asleep, she can't let herself pass out or she won't be waking up anymore, but with every minute that passes it becomes more of a struggle to make her eyes stay open.
She gives her handcuffed wrists a sharp tug, metal digging into flesh. The pain is immediate, shooting from the wound in her shoulder down into her fingertips. A welcome distraction. For a moment it works. The sharpness of it grounds her; it jolts her consciousness back into her body and stops her from drifting off. But soon, it won't be enough anymore.
She can't think of that now. She needs to—
"I'm all for chilling out, but you seem to have taken the meaning a bit too literally."
Her head snaps up at the darkly amused drawl coming from behind her, the familiarity of it cutting through the fog in her head.
Leaning against the heavy door is Leonard Snart, arms crossed in front of his chest, looking her up and down in a calculating way. There's something about the cool blue-eyed gaze that makes her shiver, irrationally, like an extra layer of frost adding to the freezing coldness of the room.
How did Snart get in here? She didn't hear the door, and he wasn't here a minute ago. Or was he?
She frowns, trying to make sense of his presence before she remembers— "You're dead."
"Quite," he agrees, and dread sinks its claws into her.
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