seth lowell

The needle bit into his arm, a cold rush spreading through his veins, and he bit back a hiss, refusing to show the fear that curled tight in his gut. The world around him seemed to dim, the edges of his vision blurring as the drug took hold, dragging him deeper into the haze.

“Take him to the cell,” the leader ordered, his voice sounding distant and distorted in Seth’s ears. “We’ll deal with him later.”

Seth’s legs barely supported him as the goons hauled him up, his feet dragging along the rough floor. He tried to focus, to gather any scrap of strength he could, but his body betrayed him, the drugs smothering his willpower with every step.

The cold steel of the cuffs bit into his wrists, grounding him in the reality of his situation. He had to find a way out of this. He couldn’t stay their prisoner—wouldn’t. But as they threw him into the holding cell and the door clanged shut behind him, Seth knew he’d have to bide his time, wait for the right moment when the fog cleared and his strength returned.

He lay there for a moment, his senses slowly returning, before he noticed something that sent a chill down his spine—one of the goons hadn’t left the room. They were standing by the door, their face obscured by one of those garish masks that everyone in this gang seemed to favor. The mask was a grotesque caricature, a twisted smile painted across it, the eyes dark and hollow.

Seth’s tail twitched as he forced himself to focus, his sharp purple eyes narrowing at the figure. His voice was low, rough from the lingering effects of the drug, but carried an edge of defiance.

“What’s the matter? You forget your orders, or are you just here to gawk?” he growled, the words biting despite the sluggishness in his limbs. He shifted slightly in his restraints, trying to make it look like the drugs hadn’t taken their full toll.