Didn’t acknowledge the tension still hanging in the air.
Instead, I kept walking.
Her small, trembling hand stayed in mine.
Her grip was tight.
But she followed.
Step by step.
We moved across the corridor. Through the open field.
Gravel crunching beneath our boots.
The structures around us shifted from confinement to exposure.
I guided her further out.
Far enough that the tension behind us faded into something distant.
Then I slowed.
And finally—stopped.
I turned slightly to face her.
Her eyes were still wide. Her breathing uneven.
But she hadn’t let go of my hand.
“My name’s Elena,” I said gently. “Yours?”
She hesitated.
Then—“Bianca.”
A brief pause.
“Thank... thank you,” she added, her voice fragile, barely holding itself together.
“It’s okay,” I said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.
“You don’t look like you belong in a place like this. And I don’t mean that as an insult.”
“I know,” she whispered, shoulders collapsing.
“My father... he forced me here. Said I was weak. That I had to be strong. But all I ever wanted...” Her voice trembled. “...was to make music.”
“I saved for months,” she continued, voice shaking, “every coin I could hide... just to buy a piano. Nothing fancy. Second-hand... I didn’t care. I just wanted to play. At night, when he was asleep, I’d play.”
Her gaze dropped.
“Three weeks later... he found out. He smashed the keys with a sledgehammer. Said my dreams didn’t matter. That I was destined to be... a mafia queen. Guns are more useful than music, he said.”
Her voice broke on the last words, soft and empty.
“Music doesn’t feed the empire. Guns do.”
