My head swam.
The world tilted slightly with each step, but I forced myself to stay awake.
To stay conscious.
To see.
Because I refused to disappear into darkness while they did this to me.
They pushed me forward.
Shoved me toward a heavy steel door.
It groaned open with a low, grinding protest.
And then—
I was inside.
The door slammed shut behind me.
A sharp metallic clang echoed through the space.
Followed by a lock.
I stood there for several long seconds.
Barely moving. Barely breathing.
Letting my eyes adjust to the dim light.
It was large.
Concrete walls painted a dull, institutional gray stretched around me, closing in without actually moving.
No windows. No escape.
Just walls.
A single narrow bed sat against one side, the mattress thin and worn, its surface stained and sagging.
No sheets.
Just a place to lie down.
And suffer.
Two metal folding chairs stood nearby, their legs slightly uneven, as though they had been used and discarded over and over again.
A couch sat along one wall—short, sagging, clearly salvaged from somewhere else—its fabric worn thin, seams fraying.
Next to it, a three-seater sofa in faded brown leather, cracked with age, one arm slightly collapsed inward.
And in the far corner—my breath caught.
A toilet.
Open. Exposed.
