The words hit like a physical blow. Ten years. My chest tightens, breath snagging painfully at the idea of being stuck here for even a fraction of that.
“But you’re still…” I trail off, struggling to find the right words. “Here.”
Her mouth curves, humourless. “Not always this room, not always this building.”
I wait, dread settling heavy in my gut.
“They take you out,” she continues, voice steady. “Dress you up, give you a new name, tell you you’re lucky.” Her fingers curl against her thigh. “Sometimes you are. Sometimes you’re not.”
The air feels denser, harder to breathe.
“And then?” I whisper.
“And then,” she says, eyes snapping back to mine, sharp with understanding, “they get tired of trying to break what won’tbend. Send you back. Different place, same rules, new girls who don’t know what’s coming.”
Her gaze flicks to the girl with the braid. To the trembling hands reaching for bottles of water. To faces far too young.
The truth lands brutally.
She hasn’t survived ten years in one cell.
She’s been circulated. Sold, used, and returned. Over and over and over again.
And somehow—somehow—she’s still here.
“And if you make yourself useful,” Alice goes on quietly, “or interesting… or a favourite”—her mouth tightens—“they decide you’re worth keeping.”
The words hang between us, heavy and cruel but I don’t look away or soften my voice with pity.
“That doesn’t make you weak,” I start.
Her eyes snap to mine, startled.
“It makes you dangerous,” I continue, low and certain. “You learned how to survive. And you learned how to protect others while doing it. That’s not broken, that’s strength most people will never have.”
For a long moment, she says nothing. Then she exhales—slow and shaky—like she’s been holding that breath for years.
“Careful,” she scolds, even as she lets out a soft laugh, more shocked than amused. “Thinking like that gets girls killed down here.”
“Only if they stop fighting,” I reply. “I don’t plan to.”
Her mouth curves, just barely. Not quite a smile, but close enough.
“Alright then,” she says after a beat. “If we’re doing this together, you listen when I tell you when to bend.”
“And you listen when I tell you when to push.”
Something like an agreement settles between us at that—quiet, solid. And for the first time since I woke up in this place, the crushing weight of being alone eases. Just a little.
Enough to breathe.
The next time the door opens, it isn’t for food.
There’s no clatter of a tray, no brief mercy of sustenance. Instead, the lock grinds back with intent, slow and deliberate, and the door swings wide enough to let four guards spill in.
They fan out in a loose V formation, boots striking concrete in grim unison. The room reacts instantly, every woman moving as far away as she can, breath caught, bodies tightening as one. Prey recognising the shape of a predator.
I don’t need to be told someone important is coming.
