On the monster who dragged me from the life I knew, the life I was fighting for.
I picture my fingers closing around his throat.
Feel the imagined give of his windpipe under my grip.
Hear his panic instead of mine.
The thought is the only warmth I have left.
Hunger gnaws at my stomach, though it’s not food I want. I want Matt. I want the normality of his presence, his voice, the rare softness he allows himself around me. The thought twists into panic. I can’t hear him, can’t see him. I don’t even know if he’s searching, if anyone knows I’m here. If anyone even knows I’m missing.
I press my forehead to the wall, breathing shallow, telling myself to focus.Survive. Observe. Wait.
Minutes stretch into hours. Each sound—the distant drip of water, a shuffle of feet, a low cough—sets my heart hammering. I try to catalogue them, mark the patterns, and figure out when the guards change shifts outside the door, assuming thereisa guard stationed there around the clock. Logic is the only thing keeping me tethered to sanity. That, and the stubborn, pulsing flame in my chest that refuses to let fear fully consume me.
I am small. I am trapped. I am terrified. But I am not broken.
And though I don’t know if I’ll survive the day, or if the next day will bring something worse, I cling to one mantra with iron teeth:I will find a way. I will survive. Matt will come for me.
Even in this cell, even in this dark, cold cage, that thought is mine. That hope is mine. And no one,no one, can take that from me.
Time crawls. Every minute stretches taut, each second threatening to snap. Has it been hours or days? I can’t tell.I have no way to measure how much time they’ve already stolen from me.
I hover near the wall, knees drawn up, fingers tracing the cold concrete, counting the cracks, the shadows, the faint imperfections in the paint. Hunger is there, gnawing at me, but not the kind that can be fed with food. I’m starving for information, for movement, for any sign that someone is searching for me or that someone is about to make their next move.
The cell is quieter than usual just the low creak of pipes and the faint drip in the corner. The three of us sit close, knees touching. Alice picks at a loose thread on her slip while Niamh—the girl with the fiery red braid—leans back against the wall, eyes half-open but alert, listening the way someone does when they’ve learned danger by sound.
“They won’t keep us forever,” Niamh whispers, mostly to convince herself. “Someone will come, they have to.”
Alice scoffs softly. “You think these people leave witnesses? We’re as good as—”
“Don’t,” I cut in sharply. “Not now.”
She presses her lips together, but the bleak understanding in her eyes says what she won’t. Part of her has lost hope—and after a decade, who could blame her?
Niamh leans into me. “Lily… do you really think—”
Before she can finish, the sound of the lock turning makes all of us freeze. Niamh’s hand clamps around mine. Alice sits up straighter, shoulders pulled tight, a harsh frown etched across her face.
“That’s not food,” she whispers, shifting slightly to shield some of the younger girls from view.
The door swings inward, light flooding the cell, outlining the shape of a guard—no, four, pushing inside with purpose. One guard is bad enough, four is unthinkable.
“You.” The one in front lifts a finger, pointing directly at me. “And her.” His chin jerks toward Niamh. “Up. Now.”
Niamh’s terrified whimper cracks something inside my chest.
Alice lunges before thinking. “No, take me instead—”
A guard shoves her back so hard she slams against the wall with a pained hiss.
“Stay down,” he snaps.
I pull Nimah behind me even though it’s useless. “Why us? What do you want?”
The lead guard steps right into my space, close enough that his breath brushes my cheek. “It wasn’t a request. Move.”
Niamh is already shaking as they grab her arm. She stumbles, crying, but the guard doesn’t slow. I twist to help her, only to feel a hand clamp around the back of my neck, steering me forward.
