Chap­ter 35 begins with Saint caught in a moment of over­whelm­ing dread, her mind rac­ing as her body reacts instinc­tive­ly to the ter­ror sur­round­ing her. She stum­bles in the dark, falling to her knees in a fran­tic search for her lost glass­es, each move­ment fueled by pure sur­vival instinct. Her hands instead land on her bag, and with­out hes­i­ta­tion, she retrieves the firearm hid­den inside, her grip tight­en­ing as she points it toward the unknown. The air feels thick with dan­ger, but her moment of con­trol is fleeting—within sec­onds, the weapon is snatched from her. A mock­ing voice, low and men­ac­ing, echoes through the space, ques­tion­ing whether she is tru­ly a “saint” or some­thing far less vir­tu­ous. The taunt cuts deep, stir­ring a sense of shame and vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty as fear takes hold.

Grasp­ing for any­thing that can offer defense, Saint reach­es for the steel ball bear­ings and sling­shot tucked away in her pock­et. Her hands trem­ble, caus­ing sev­er­al bear­ings to slip through her fin­gers and scat­ter across the ground. She man­ages to load one, steady­ing her breath just enough to take a sin­gle, des­per­ate shot. The loud crack rever­ber­ates through the room like a warn­ing, but it brings no com­fort. Instead, her ears ring, her heart­beat pounds in her throat, and her mus­cles shake from the sud­den release of adren­a­line. When she final­ly dares to move, she steps onto shat­tered glass—its crunch beneath her feet a grim reminder of how frag­ile her sit­u­a­tion has become. She locates her bro­ken glass­es and places them on her face, even though the lens­es dis­tort her view and warp the already ter­ri­fy­ing scene around her.

The dim, red-tinged light wash­ing over the area gives the space an unnat­ur­al feel, dis­tort­ing shad­ows and mak­ing the walls appear to pulse with malev­o­lent ener­gy. Deter­mined to escape or at least uncov­er the truth of where she is, Saint walks deep­er into the barn’s maze of box­es and crates. Her every step feels heav­ier, like wad­ing through invis­i­ble resis­tance. The air grows warmer, thick­er, with the scent of dust and some­thing unclean cling­ing to her skin. A dis­tant mechan­i­cal hum blends with the thud­ding of her heart, mak­ing it hard to dis­tin­guish what’s imag­ined and what’s real. As she rounds the cor­ner of one nar­row aisle, some­thing in her line of vision stops her cold. The gasp that escapes her is not from phys­i­cal pain, but from a sud­den and dev­as­tat­ing recognition—whatever she’s seen has stripped away the last of her illu­sions.

Every­thing about the barn feels designed to unset­tle. Box­es are stacked with mil­i­tary pre­ci­sion, yet coat­ed in grime, as if for­got­ten by time. In her dis­tort­ed vision, Saint thinks she sees movement—subtle, shad­ow-like shapes shift­ing between the crates, but noth­ing sol­id enough to con­firm. Every instinct screams for her to flee, but fear keeps her root­ed. Her mind flash­es to all the miss­ing girls, to every news­pa­per arti­cle and rumor that led her here. The real­iza­tion that she may now be part of that same nar­ra­tive crash­es over her like a wave. The weight of it steals her breath, and for a brief moment, her knees threat­en to buck­le again. Still, some­thing in her refus­es to give in. There is a thin thread of resolve keep­ing her upright, forc­ing her for­ward through the labyrinth of hor­rors.

She press­es on, heart thud­ding in her chest, each breath shaky and loud in her own ears. The red light inten­si­fies ahead, spilling from a gap in the barn wall like a warn­ing flare. As she approach­es, she sees what looks like an old pho­to stu­dio setup—backdrops hung crooked­ly, strange props aban­doned mid-scene, and dark liq­uid stains on the floor. A cold under­stand­ing dawns in her gut, one that makes her skin crawl. This place had been used—perhaps recently—and not for any­thing inno­cent. She feels like a tres­pass­er in some­one else’s night­mare, but now she’s been cast in the lead­ing role. There is no stage exit, no cur­tain to fall, and no guar­an­tee of res­cue. Saint knows she must either find a way out or become anoth­er name­less face in a sto­ry that no one will believe.