The Holy City of Rebelkin (18)
Cyrus clutched at his chest, his fingers digging into his clothes as if trying to physically pull away the source of his torment. His vision blurred at the edges, dark spots dancing before his eyes as the pain threatened to overwhelm him. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead, the droplets trickling down his face in stark contrast to the burning pain within.
"Hey, you okay?"
"Give me a second," Cyrus choked out.
His voice, which had been poised to articulate the word "dungeon," faltered into a strangled gasp. He could taste the metallic tang of fear and desperation on his tongue, the word he had intended to say now trapped in his throat, unable to escape. Every attempt to speak only intensified the sensation, as if the act of uttering the word was somehow amplifying the torment he felt.