Tyler's POV
Stupid night
Excruciating, soul-draining night.
I haven't slept a wink. Not a nap, not a doze—not even a blink that lasted more than four seconds. My body? It feels like it was used as a human punching bag by a group of MMA-trained gorillas. Every muscle in me is throbbing like it's trying to beat its own drum solo.
And yeah, sure, part of the reason I can't sleep is because every time I shift even an inch, my body screams like I'm being stabbed. But the real reason?
This place is hell.
Capital H. Capital E. Capital double L.
A mansion? Nah, this is a luxury torture chamber disguised as a palace. Big rooms, high walls, eerie silence, and that ever-lingering feeling like someone's watching you. Not to mention her. Azazel. The Devil in a black tank top. She's got hands of steel, nerves of ice, and a temper that'd make volcanoes sweat.
I'm convinced she doesn't sleep. Just powers down like a military-grade robot waiting to ruin my life the next day.
And to think—this was supposed to be a promotion. A change of scenery. An upgrade.
Now I'm pretty sure I walked into a reality show no one asked for: Survivor: Rich People's Dungeon.
I rolled over on my bed with a groan. Mistake. My ribs said NOPE and my shoulder made a sound that definitely wasn't human. I froze for a second. Did I just dislocate something by breathing?
"Great," I muttered to myself. "Fantastic. What's next? Internal bleeding?"
I sat up slowly, like a 98-year-old man who fought in three wars. My bed—fluffy and comfortable at first—now felt like a trap that lures you in, then refuses to let go.
I need to get out of here.
I mean, let's be real. The last guy? The one Azazel trained before me? Almost died.
Keyword: Almost. But still, almost is one headbutt away from actually. And I'm not trying to be the next casualty in her deranged training program.
June 9th. That's the date I've locked in my head. Why? I don't even know. Maybe because it sounds cool. Maybe because I just need time to plan. To gather information. To memorize hallways and exits and guard rotations.
Maybe because I need to fake my own death or something.
Desperate times, my friend.
I sighed and leaned back slowly onto the mattress. "Ow," I hissed. "Owww." Even my sigh hurt. Seriously? How does that happen?
I stared at the ornate ceiling above me. Gold-accented trim, marble chandelier, walls that probably cost more than my entire life insurance policy. It's a rich man's heaven, and yet here I am—a broke man's mistake.
Eric and Anne would've been helpful in a situation like this. Anne's got the brains, Eric's got the brawn. And me? Well, I'm the wildcard. The unpredictable chaos they never see coming. Together, we're dangerous.
But now? I'm alone.
No friends. No freedom. No plan.
Just a bruised body and some repressed trauma from sparring with a woman who clearly bench-presses elephants for fun.
But hey—if Michael Scofield could break out of prison, surely I can break out of this fancy hellhole.
I've seen all five seasons of Prison Break. Twice. I know how to improvise a lockpick out of a toothbrush and a shoelace. I know to memorize blueprints and observe guard patterns.
...Granted, I don't have blueprints. Or shoelaces. They literally made me wear these weird foot-wrap-slippers. But I've got determination. That counts for something.
I sat upright again—slower this time, more careful with my movements—and looked around the room. If I was gonna break out, I needed intel. I needed to know everything.
Where the exits were.
Where Azazel sleeps (so I can avoid it like the plague).
Where they keep the snacks (because running on an empty stomach is a death sentence).
I let out a sigh and limped toward the window. The view was gorgeous—huge gardens, winding stone paths, and a distant glimpse of the iron gate that marked freedom. Or a very dramatic electrocution, if I touch it wrong.
Still, it was hope.
Even if the mansion looks like paradise on the outside, on the inside—it's a war zone.
Azazel was a general. And I was the poor soul who just got drafted without consent.
But I had something she didn't see yet.
I may not have strength, or speed, or combat experience... but I had something more dangerous:
A very stubborn streak. And nothing to lose.
I'm getting out of here.
I don't care if I have to fake a mental breakdown or dig a tunnel with a spoon.
This mansion might be built like a fortress, but I've cracked codes bigger than this with nothing but spite and a protein bar.
I limped back to bed, clutching my side. I lay back down and stared at the ceiling again, a small grin tugging at my busted lip
"June 9th," I whispered I'll leave this place.