The air was tense. The atmosphere was so palpable that if you ran your finger over it, you would feel a little bump. A little bump called tension. Like bubble wrap, where you run your fingers over it, feeling all the little bumps, except in this case, it’s not plastic air-filled sacs, it’s the feeling of tension in the air. Not that you can really feel it, but if you could, you would. The air was thick, so thick it was like walking through a thick soup of uncertainty.
Jason Banks pushed back his thick black hair with the back of his thick, muscular fingers. The museum was dark, its exhibits casting dark shadows across the marble floor. This was no ordinary night, thought Jason Banks. He had been led here like a thread off a spool of cotton, unwinding slowly, threading back to its beginning. The mystery of his life was about to be unwound in front of him, unspooling like a spider’s web. Except Jason was caught in the web. The web of his own life. Like a helpless fly. No longer able to fly.
Jason Banks’s footsteps echoed in the giant hall, echoing the beats of his own heartbeat, playing in time like a drumbeat. Suddenly, there it was. A noise. Splitting open the darkness and the silence like a speedboat. Jason caught something out of the corner of his eye, catching peripherally the view of a shadow, coming out of the darkness. But it was too late. Too late.
Jason knew what was coming at him even before it hit him. He was too late.