At the far end of the room — maybe thirty feet away — sat a single figure bound to a heavy metal chair.
I started walking.
Slow at first.
Then faster.
My boots echoed sharply across the concrete floor, each step louder as I approached.
The distance closed.
Details sharpened.
Her head hung forward.
Dark hair clumped together with dried blood, strands sticking to her cheeks.
Her face...
God.
Her mouth had been shattered.
Her jaw looked misaligned — pushed slightly to one side.
Front teeth jutted at unnatural angles, some chipped, some missing entirely.
Her lips were split open in multiple places, swollen and bruised purple-black.
Blood had crusted around the corners of her mouth.
Bruises bloomed across her cheekbones — layered shades of blue, green, and yellow overlapping like evidence of repeated blows.
Lash marks covered her arms.
Thin red welts crisscrossed her skin.
Some had reopened and were still leaking.
Her shirt had been ripped open down the center.
Fabric torn.
Buttons scattered.
Exposing her chest and stomach — where more cuts marked her skin.
Some shallow. Some deeper.
The cloth that remained was stiff with dried blood mixed with fresh stains.
Rope burns circled her wrists and ankles — skin rubbed raw from fighting the restraints.
She had fought.
God, she had fought.
And they had broken her for it.
