Phone call

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"Hey… Yo. Wake up, bro."

Justin's eyes snapped open at the impatient voice. He winced at the sunlight, groaning at the sharp jolt in his neck. His vision blurred, then settled on a pair of legs—and the scuffed police shoes beginning to walk away.

"He's awake. Nutcase must've slept here all night."

"Let him be, Peter." Said a older officer"Fear's twisted the man's soul."

Justin rose slowly. Wrinkles pressed into his cheek from his watch strap, clothes crumpled, and yellow-tinted exhaustion clung to his eyes. A trail of dried saliva curved from the edge of his mouth.

He blinked in confusion. The room was unfamiliar, filled with people—too many for comfort. Then the stench hit.

A slap of old sweat, urine-soaked concrete, mold, and cheap cleaning chemicals. The air reeked of something metallic and sour, like milk gone bad. His breath caught. Despair lingered on his tongue like dust.