He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t grunt. Doesn’t even breathe loud enough to track. Just the slam of a door—sharp and final—tells me he’s gone.
I lie still for a moment, listening.
Nothing. No footsteps. No voices. Just a heavy silence pressing down on me like it’s trying to suffocate me.
Then I move.
My fingers fumble at the knot beneath my chin, nails scraping against the coarse rope. It’s tight—too tight—but I know knots. I’ve tied enough of them in my life to understand how they work. My hands are shaking, but I work through it, tugging and twisting until the hood finally slips free.
The air hits my face like a slap—stale, humid, thick with the scent of rot and old fear.
The room is dim, lit only by the weak light filtering through a barred window. Scraps of curtain hang like torn skin, fluttering slightly in the breeze from a cracked pane. Dust floats in the air, catching the light like ash in a dying fire.
And then I see her.
She’s curled up on a mattress across the room, her back to me, knees drawn to her chest. Her spine juts out like a row of broken wings beneath a threadbare shirt. Her hair is matted, tangled, and clings to her neck like it hasn’t been washed in weeks.
She’s so small. So still.
She could be a child.
But something in the way she curls into herself tells me she’s older than she looks. Older in the way trauma ages you—fast and without mercy.
The wall behind her is smeared with handprints. Faint. Dirty. Some small, some larger. All of them desperate. The beige paint is cracked and peeling, flaking like old scabs.
“Hello?”
My voice barely escapes me—hoarse, cracked, more breath than sound. It scrapes up my throat like it’s forgotten how to form words.
The girl flinches. I see it in the way her shoulders tighten, her spine curling in tighter.
“We shouldn’t talk,” she whispers, her voice so soft it barely stirs the air. “If they see us talking… we’ll be in trouble.”
Her tone is hollow. Not just afraid but conditioned. Like the words have been beaten into her bones.
“Who are they?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. I need to hear it. I need to understand what I’m walking into.
“They’re the devil,” she says, and her voice catches—tight and trembling, like it’s wrapped around a sob she’s too afraid to let out.
I swallow hard. “What do they make us do?”
I don’t want to ask. But I have to. I need to prepare. I need to know what’s coming—what they’ll expect, what they’ll take without question.
“Everything,” she whispers. “Please… don’t talk to me. I don’t want to be punished again.”
Her words land like a stone in my chest.
I nod, even though she can’t see me. I won’t push her. The last thing I want is to get her hurt. But still—something inside me aches. We should be allies. We should be looking out for each other. Because in a place like this, where the walls are closing inand the rules are written in bruises, a friend might be the only thing that keeps you human.
I lie back slowly, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
I don’t know her name.
But I know her fear.
And that’s enough—for now.
The room isn’t spinning as violently anymore, but the dryness in my mouth is unbearable—like I’ve been chewing sand for hours. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, and every breath feels like it scrapes through the Sahara. But there’s no water. No sink. No cup. Nothing to quench the thirst clawing at my throat.
