Every time I let my eyelids fall, the same nightmare rolled in—
the leather-bound girl crawling toward me, bell chiming at her throat, air thinning until I couldn't breathe.
I'd spent years believing my soul was already steeped in the blackest things this world could brew. I was wrong. There was a darkness past the end of dark, and when I saw it, it bled into me like poison in a vein.
They didn't need to torture me anymore; I was cracked open, mind in splinters. I spent my days in that tight, coffin-like dungeon staring at the breaks in the walls and ceiling.
Daylight—if you could call it that—was a faint gray smear seeping through the broken vent. At night, whether my eyes were open or shut, it made no difference; just one razor of light slanted through the iron door and struck the spot where I'd scratched my drawing. Everything else lay in blind darkness.
With the beatings paused, I'd clawed back a scrap of strength, running my body through silent drills so it wouldn't betray me when it mattered.
But the doctor and Patrick were ghosts. The silence gnawed. Had they left me here to rot? Had they moved Ashur? Did they even need me now? Those thoughts chewed holes straight through sleep.
I lay on my side, listening to the mouse-like chirp of real mice. Sometimes they slipped through the cracks and woke me with a bite. I couldn't resent them—we were all prisoners.
When the metal door finally screeched, I jerked upright, vertebrae snapping like dry twigs, and pressed my back to the wet, cold wall. A blade of light stretched across the floor, wider every second. Squinting, I raised my chained hand and shoved my hair out of my eyes.
"Out. Now."
The guard's voice was flat ice. My heart kicked; my fists clenched. I glared at the half-open door.
It was time.
I forced myself up. Guards surged in, snapping the locks from my wrists and ankles. I stood, slow, almost calm, and let my eyes settle on the picture I'd carved—a butterfly straining to take flight.
Warm, golden light had found its wings.
And the cell door was open.
The butterfly was finally leaving its cage.
"Waiting on a formal invitation?"
Patrick's drawl oozed through the doorway. I glared at him, eyebrows knitted, while he lounged against the frame wearing that perpetual sneer. The phantom weight of the chain still burned around my wrist.
He shoved the door fully open. White corridor light speared my eyes; for a second I was blind. Two guards seized my arms and hauled me out.
"Smells like a sewer in here," Patrick told one of them, loud enough to echo. "Doctor's picky—hose her down."
I bared my teeth. The guards slammed me against the gray wall, then unleashed a fire-hose blast. Icy water hit like bullets, igniting every half-healed bruise. I curled inward, jaw locked so hard my molars creaked. By the time they quit, I was drenched and shaking, water dripping from every seam.
Patrick tossed a towel at me. "Much better."
I wrapped it around myself without looking at him, my body rattling. No pants—just a white fleece hoodie they flung my way. While I swapped the filthy tee for the hoodie, I heard their little laughs and whistles. The hem brushed mid-thigh; I yanked it lower and ignored them.
"Fun's over," Patrick said to the guards. "Move."