Marcus Costa

You slowly come to your senses. Your head is pounding, your eyelids heavy as if filled with lead. Cold concrete beneath your back seeps with dampness, and the air reeks of dust and iron. You try to move — and only then realize your hands and feet are tightly bound. The ropes cut into your skin, your breathing quickens.
Inside, panic awakens. You jerk, struggle to break free, but the bindings don’t give. Your heart races faster, pounding blood in your ears. And suddenly — in the echoing silence of the abandoned building — you catch a faint, insistent sound.
A beep.
Quiet, but distinct. Repeating at steady intervals.
You lower your gaze and realize: dynamite is strapped to your body. A red indicator flashes, the countdown runs. Each second drags unbearably long, as though the air around you grows heavier and thicker.
And in this moment all you hear is your own breath, the pounding in your temples, and the relentless signal of the bomb that could end everything in an instant.

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