Sienna
The pounding in my skull was rhythmic, a heavy, wet thudding behind my eyes that synchronized perfectly with the drip of condensation somewhere to my left.
*Drip. Thud. Drip. Thud.*
I didn't open my eyes. If there was one thing I had learned from writing hours of character arcs about survival, and subsequently living through enough pack politics to fill a library, it was that you never let the enemy know the exact moment you regain consciousness. You lie still. You listen. You measure the air.
The air smelled like rust, damp earth, and the distinct, oily tang of cheap gasoline. Not a secure bunker, then. A warehouse, or maybe an abandoned mechanic's workshop near the outer borders.
