?????? ??

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
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Present Day.
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I hold the small piece of paper in my trembling hands, my fingers brushing over the uneven edges as if searching for answers hidden in its texture. My chest tightens, and I force myself to breathe deeply, trying to keep the panic at bay. I can't let myself spiral—not now, not here. If I let the stress consume me, I'll pass out or worse, draw attention. And in this place, attention could mean anything.

Payback time.

Payback time.

The words are sharp, deliberate, and ominous. My mind races as I read them over and over, each repetition twisting the pit in my stomach tighter. The handwriting—thin, jagged, and slanted—feels almost too personal, as if whoever wrote it wanted me to hear their voice in my head.

But what does it mean? Payback for what? Who would even send me this?

A bitter laugh almost escapes my throat. How ridiculous, really. Slipping a piece of paper into my food. As if I wasn't already miserable enough, now I have to play some cryptic guessing game. It's pathetic. Juvenile. Who even writes letters anymore? We have phones, for God's sake. Messages come in texts and notifications now, not scraps of paper buried in prison rations.

And yet, I can't deny the way my fingers tighten around the note. Despite my irritation, despite the absurdity of it all, there's a strange familiarity to it. Letters and envelopes always gave me a peculiar thrill—nostalgia for a simpler time. I used to send Amy letters for fun, silly little notes sealed in pastel envelopes. There was something magical about it, the intimacy of words written by hand.

But this? This isn't magic. This is something else entirely.

Focus.

Focus, Blair.

I grit my teeth, trying to silence the memories threatening to surface. This isn't the time for sentimentality or useless nostalgia. I need answers. I need to figure out who would send me this message and why.

"Who would say this to me?" I mutter under my breath, the sound of my own voice breaking the heavy silence. I groan softly, frustration bubbling up as I turn the note over in my hands, as if the back might somehow hold more clues.

The more I think about it, the angrier I get. Someone hates me enough to slip a threatening message into my meal. Someone wants me to feel exactly what I'm feeling right now—unease, confusion, fear. And the worst part? It's working.

My mind churns through every interaction, every name, every face that could be responsible for this. But no matter how hard I try, I can't pin it down. The possibilities feel endless, and the mystery is a noose tightening around my throat.

Who hates me enough to threaten me like this?

My first guess is Warner. It makes sense, doesn't it? Blondie has already made it clear how much he despises me. Locking me in this hellhole for four days is exactly the kind of heartless punishment he'd enjoy dishing out. He doesn't need a reason; he thrives on control, on making people feel small. Payback time sounds like something he'd say just to mess with me, to keep me on edge, as if locking me up wasn't enough.