Page 139 of Pink Ink

With one last backward glance around the street, I slowly head up the stairs. My footsteps thump against the old wooden stairs, broadcasting my arrival to anyone in the building.

“Hello,” I call out, only to be met with silence. “Anyone there?”

This feels like the start of a bad horror movie.

I call out again once I’m on the third floor, where the ad will be recorded. No response.

It’s an open-space studio, not the largest I’ve been to, but by no means the smallest either. A blue backdrop stands against one wall, a wooden chair in front of it, and some plants and office props in the corner.

No windows, no moonlight, only the glare of the studio lights. If anyone asked for my input, I’d say it would be better to film in a real office building. Natural lighting would also make the guy seem more approachable, but I’m not getting paid to have an opinion.

The creative director decided that we’re doing it in a studio, so I guess that’s what we’re going to do. But I won’t be adding it to my portfolio any time soon.

I set my gear by the back wall and yell louder. Maybe whoever unlocked the door stepped out and forgot to close properly.

I slump down onto a nearby seat and send the organizer an email before begrudgingly setting up. The later they are, the later I’ll have to stay. If rent wasn’t due, I would have canceled and risked taking a reputation hit because I can’t deal with any of this crap right now.

Twenty minutes later, I’m considering calling it quits. We were meant to start more than half an hour ago. I would bet my bottom dollar that the talent is a spoiled rich kid who gets away with holding everyone up. The director could have at least done me the courtesy of sending an email.

I throw my phone on top of my bag, then pull myself up and check out the other rooms. There are a couple of offices and studio spaces on the second floor and another on the third.

All empty.

And still no email.

This place is giving me the creeps.

Okay, I’m out of here.

I’ll take the financial hit if they ask for their deposit back. I’m not going to wait around all night. I’d much rather be held by Maddox, in bed, hiding away from the world.

Wiping a hand down my face, I sigh and start to leave the studio. A hand clamps around my arm. The room spins before air punches from my lungs as my back collides with the floor.

The blood drains from my face as my eyes focus on the man looming above, dressed in black, wearing a balaclava, holding a hunting knife in his grip. A shrill cry escapes from my throat. I scramble back.

He’s on me in the next second, straddling my hips. Raw terror tears through me. I try to scream again, but deadly fingers wrap around my throat, and fire instantly burns through my skull.

I put everything I have into trying to kick him off. It’s useless. He’s too strong, and dots are starting to blur my vision. I clamor for the switchblade in my pocket, struggling to get a good grip.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snarls, bringing the knife up my cheek. “You—”

My mind blanks out. Panic drives my limbs, and instincts take over. The mini blade slices through skin and tendon until it’s buried to the hilt in his armpit. A garbled cry tears from his throat. Or maybe it’s mine.

Blood gushes from the wound at the very top of his inner arm. Warm liquid falls onto my chest and splatters a spray of scarlet onto my neck and face, seeping past the seam of my lips so I taste copper.

My eyes round in horror. A bloodcurdling scream tears from my lips. My hands fly out to shove him back. He barely sways, yanking the blade right out of his skin. Then he crashes, trapping me with his weight against the floor.

He’s still struggling, holding me down with his hands on my shoulder and chest. Bleeding all over me. Something glints out of the corner of my eye, and I throw my hand out to grab the knife. He beats me to it.

I try to buck him off, slapping the floor around me in search of my switchblade. I can’t feel anything but the paper backdrop beneath my slippery fingertips. My throat burns from screaming but I don’t stop, hoping and praying I can grab anything to use as a makeshift weapon.

“No!” I beg, fighting him with my dwindling energy.

My foot catches on the nearby prop table and sends the items clattering onto the floor. He raises his arm, weapon gripped in his hand.

A muffledbanggoes off. A spray of red splatters onto the blue backdrop as I watch the man collapse onto me.

Time slows. I stare at the dotted ceiling, crushed by his weight. Thedrip, drip, dripof thick blood trickles over my skin.