“Thanks, Sarah, but I think I’ll stay here, because…”

“Go to the other room, Stephanie,” Robert interrupted me without taking his eyes off the map and simultaneously adjusting the frequency switch on the receiver. “It’s getting too cold in here.”

A dark room with one small window boarded up with wooden slats. The confined space made my head spin, and my breath caught. Through the narrow gaps between the beams, cold, pale light streamed in – the thickening darkness of the street seemed bright compared to the gloom of the room. A bed, smelling of dust, took up most of the space. A non-functional television on the wall. A worn-out armchair in the corner. Sam, curled up in a ball and covered with some blanket.

I lay on the right edge of the bed; colorful spots danced in front of my eyes, and I tried to breathe more evenly to fight the tightness in my chest. Sarah was breathing quietly beside me. Behind her, Norman had already fallen asleep, instantly cut off. Another spot – on the left edge – remained unoccupied for now.

I wanted desperately to sleep; fatigue coursed through every part of my body. But on some unconscious level, I scolded myself: Steph, how can you want to sleep when there’s so much chaos around? How can you fall asleep peacefully when you don’t know if Andrew is safe, if he’s waiting for you, or even if you are safe right now? I couldn’t allow myself to rest. I felt guilty for wanting sleep when there was chaos and madness all around. Although I understood that it was the emotional rollercoaster, the fear, the horror, and the confusion – those were the reasons for my exhausted and shattered state.

Sarah was right: this room was warmer – the wind didn’t blow so freely here, and raindrops didn’t come in – plus, we were all lying close to each other, warming ourselves with our bodies. And I did feel a bit safer; it was, of course, an imagined, illusory safety – but a body drifting into sleep didn’t pay attention to the details.

The door opened and a man walked in. For a moment, he was illuminated by the dim light from the next room. At first, I didn’t recognize him. The outline of his face was defined by a strip of beard running from his chin to his lower lip. Dark hair of medium length, shorter on the sides. On the left side of his neck, dark tattoo lines extended to his shoulder and, apparently, across his back and chest. Snake-like lines covered his entire right forearm and part of his upper arm. On the back of his left forearm, an all-seeing eye within a triangle, riddled with lines and inscriptions. All these tattoos became visible when the man washed the blood and dirt off himself. There had been so much blood and dirt that it had obscured the designs on his body. Christopher Lewis. The man who said he wouldn’t move if someone attacked me or Sam.

The Gorgon's footsteps were almost silent; he lowered himself onto the spot he had left on the bed and exhaled quietly, covering his face with his forearm. I pulled the blanket tighter around me, instinctively seeking refuge. The man did not move. He lay on his back, one leg bent at the knee, breathing deeply. At first, I kept my eyes open. I watched Christopher closely, scanned the corners of the room, and listened for sounds. Without even noticing, I began to breathe in sync with Lewis. And then, without realizing it, I drifted off to sleep.

I could not remember what I dreamt. In fact, it would have frightened me to recall it, as those dreams were bleak and painful. I understood what days those images came from; I relived the past over and over, drowning in memories that tormented my heart. And then I faced the bloody present. I cried out in my sleep, screamed, pleaded for help – and jumped from a height in the hope of breaking apart, but I just kept falling, falling into the abyss, unable to find help or save myself.