6. Aria

6

ARIA

I blink awake, my head pounding. The world swims into focus, unfamiliar shapes sharpening into... a room? My journalist instincts kick in before I'm fully conscious, mind cataloging details even as I struggle to remember how I got here.

Rough wooden beams criss-cross above me, weathered and dark with age. I'm lying on something soft – a bed, I realize, covered in a patchwork quilt that's seen better days. The air smells of dust and pine, with an underlying mustiness that speaks of disuse.

I push myself up, wincing at the protest from my aching muscles. The room's a study in contrasts. An old brass oil lamp sits on a battered nightstand, looking unused, but there's a modern digital clock beside it, its red numbers a jarring splash of modernity.

"Where the hell am I?" I mutter, swinging my legs off the bed. My shoes are gone, I notice absently.

The floorboards creak as I stand, my bare feet chilled by their rough surface. I pad to the window, pushing aside a faded curtain. Dense forest presses close, no other buildings in sight. It's like I've been dropped into some isolated getaway.

A soft whirr catches my attention. I turn, spotting a mini-fridge tucked in the corner. So there's electricity, at least. But as I scan the room, I see no phone, no computer. No way to contact the outside world.

My heart rate picks up as memories start flooding back. The chase. The cliff. And then... something impossible. I shake my head, trying to clear it. One mystery at a time.

I move to the door, testing the handle. It's unlocked. I ease it open, peering into a small living area. More of the same – a mix of old and new. A stone fireplace dominates one wall, while a sleek electric kettle sits on a rickety table.

But I don't hear anything. And for some reason, I decide to stay silent, my body feeling an immediate threat that I don't know yet.

I step further into the room, eyes darting for anything I can use as a weapon if needed. My fingers itch for my phone, for any way to document this strange place. The journalist in me is already composing headlines, even as fear churns in my gut.

I ease the cabin door open, wincing at the slight creak. The forest air hits me, crisp and heavy with the scent of pine. My bare feet sink into damp earth as I step outside, sending a shiver up my spine.

The cabin sits at the edge of a clearing, surrounded by towering trees. As my eyes adjust to the dim light filtering through the canopy, I spot more structures dotting the area. It's like stumbling onto an abandoned summer camp, frozen in time.

My journalistic instincts kick in, overriding the fear that pulses through my veins. I creep towards the nearest cabin, its weathered boards warped and graying. The windows are clouded with grime, impossible to see through. I try the door – locked.

Moving on, I count at least a dozen cabins in various states of disrepair. Some look barely standing, while others seem almost livable. It's eerily quiet, save for the rustle of leaves and the occasional bird call.

I pause, pressing myself against the rough bark of a massive oak. Something feels... off. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and my heart hammers against my ribs. I can't shake the feeling of being watched, hunted even. But by what?

Memories of the chase, of those men pursuing me, flash through my mind. And then... something else. Something impossible. I shake my head, trying to focus on the present.

I spot a larger building in the distance, maybe an old mess hall or community center. If there are answers, they might be there. But as I take a step towards it, a twig snaps underfoot. The sound echoes unnaturally loud in the stillness.

I freeze, every muscle tense. That feeling of danger intensifies, like electricity crackling in the air. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps. Whatever brought me here, whatever saved me from those men... it's close. And I'm not sure if I should be grateful or terrified.

I creep closer to the edge of the forest, my curiosity overriding my caution. The trees thin out, revealing a vast clearing that takes my breath away – but not in a good way.

Dozens of people mill about, their movements slow and listless. Many are laying on the ground, moaning.

At first glance, they remind me of patients in a hospital ward, but this is no medical facility. The open field is dotted with makeshift shelters – tents, lean-tos, even a few rickety shacks. But it's the people themselves that send a chill down my spine.

Their skin is unnaturally pale, almost translucent in the weak sunlight. Dark circles ring sunken eyes, and their bodies seem frail, as if a strong gust of wind might blow them away. Some huddle in small groups, whispering in voices too low for me to hear. Others wander aimlessly, their gazes unfocused and distant.

A gust of wind rustles the leaves around me, and I instinctively duck lower. But no one in the clearing reacts to my presence. They seem oblivious to everything beyond their own misery.

I scan the area, looking for any sign of authority figures or guards. Nothing. Just more of those sickly individuals, going through the motions of a mockery of normal life.

I spot what looks like a makeshift infirmary near the center of the clearing. A few people lie on cots, attended to by others who seem only marginally healthier. Whatever's afflicting these people, it's clear they're not getting proper medical care.

Questions swirl in my mind, each more unsettling than the last. Is this some kind of quarantine zone? A secret testing facility? And how the hell did I end up here?

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing thoughts. I need to find a way out, to expose whatever's happening here. But first, I need more information.

I freeze as a twig snaps behind me. Before I can turn, a hand clamps over my mouth, another wrapping around my waist. I'm lifted off my feet, heart pounding as we move with inhuman speed back towards the cabin I woke up in.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?" a deep voice hisses in my ear.

My captor sets me down inside, slamming the door shut. I whirl to face him, and my breath catches. It's the man from the cliff – impossibly pale, with green eyes that seem to glow in the dim light.

"Who are you?" I demand, backing away. "What is this place?"

He runs a hand through his dark hair, frustration etched on his face. "My name is Christos. And you shouldn't be here."

"No shit," I snap. "But I am here, so start talking. What's wrong with those people out there?"

Christos' jaw clenches. "It's complicated. They're... sick."

"Bullshit," I counter. "This isn't some normal illness. What are you hiding?"

He takes a step closer, and I fight the urge to retreat. There's something dangerous about him, but also... alluring. I shake my head, trying to focus.

"Listen," Christos says, his voice low and urgent. "You're in danger here. I shouldn't have brought you, but I couldn't just leave you to die."

"So you saved me from those men, only to what? Keep me prisoner?"

His eyes flash with something – anger? Hunger? "I'm trying to protect you."

"From what?" I press.

Christos hesitates, and I can see him wrestling with how much to reveal. "There are things in this world you don't understand..."

I almost don't answer, but I bite out, "Aria."

A brief smile touches his lips. But then he sighs, running a hand over his face. "Look, you just need to trust me."

"Trust you?" I laugh bitterly. "I don't even know you."

"No," he agrees, his gaze intense. "But I'm all you've got right now."

I hate that he's right. I'm lost, alone, with no way to contact the outside world. But my instincts are screaming that I've stumbled onto something huge. Whatever's happening on this island, it's big. And Christos might be at the center of it.

"Fine," I say, meeting his eyes. "But I'm not just going to sit here and play damsel in distress. I want answers."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "You're stubborn, aren't you?"

"You have no idea," I reply.