“You need to eat. And drink,” the girl says softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “There’s more coming tonight.”
It’s the first time she’s spoken to me properly. Her tone is flat, but not unkind. Just… resigned. Like she’s said these words before. Like she’s learned the script by heart.
She keeps glancing at the door, scrubbing at my skin with a damp cloth like she’s trying to erase something. Or maybe like she’s being watched.
“Who’s coming?” I ask, though I already know.
“More of them.” Her hand pauses for a second, then resumes in deliberate circles. “You need to stop fighting. It doesn’t help. It only makes it worse. Please… just do what they say.”
She’s terrified.
More than me, maybe.
And that’s saying something.
“What’s your name?” I ask, my voice gentler now. I meet her eyes, silently begging her to give me something—anything—to hold onto.
She hesitates. Then her gaze locks with mine—piercing blue, irises too old for her face. Her lips are cracked and pressed into a tight line.
“Lea,” she says. “What’s yours?”
“Nell.” A beat passes between us. “How old are you, Lea?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps wiping, slower now. When she finally speaks, her voice is barely there.
“Seventeen.”
I swallow hard. She’s just achild.
Having a conversation—an actual, human conversation—feels surreal. Like we’re pretending we’re anywhere else. Like if we talk long enough, we might forget where we are.
But we both know better.
I nod slowly, even though the motion makes my head throb. “You look younger.”
She shrugs, still wiping at my skin, though there’s nothing left to clean. “They like that.”
The words hang between us, heavy and sharp. I don’t ask who they are. I already know.
“I’m twenty-seven,” I offer, though it feels meaningless here. We’re not girls with birthdays or futures. We’re just… here.
Lea finally stops scrubbing. Her hands fall to her lap, and for the first time, she looks at me without flinching. “You shouldn’t talk so much. They don’t like it.”
“I don’t care what they like,” I whisper.
She gives me a look—half warning, half admiration. “You will.”
We sit in silence for a moment. The air is thick with the smell of bleach and sweat and something sour that never quite fades. Somewhere down the hall, a door slams. We both flinch.
“I tried to run,” she says suddenly, her voice flat. “First night. Got as far as the stairwell before they caught me.”
“What did they do?”
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. The silence says enough.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur.
She shrugs again, but this time it’s more like a shiver. “Don’t be. You’ll try too. Everyone does.”
