The room pressed down on her.
It wasn't just the four concrete walls or the flickering bulb above — it was the air itself, heavy and stale, so thick Mia felt like she was suffocating. The stench clung to everything: mold, damp wood, rust, and the metallic tang of blood that made her stomach turn. Somewhere in the silence, a steady drip echoed like a cruel reminder of time passing, though she had no idea how long she'd been here. Hours. Days. Maybe longer.
Her wrists burned. The rope bit deeper every time she shifted, the fibers cutting into her raw skin. Her ankles were tied just as tight, leaving her half-curled against the wall in a position that made her back ache and her legs cramp. The blindfold they had used on her earlier lay discarded near her feet, but it didn't matter. The single bulb swayed faintly above, throwing long, uneven shadows that made the room seem smaller, like it was closing in on her.
She closed her eyes, but that only made it worse. Memories attacked her, dragging her back to where it all started.
The orphanage.
She could almost smell it again — the sour mix of bleach and stale bread. She remembered the creaky beds lined in rows, the cracked glass of the dormitory window where she used to sit for hours just to watch people walk by outside. The matron, Miss Grace, always stomping through the halls with her cane, snapping at the children for laughing too loud or eating too slow.
And Elsie.
Her chest ached at the thought of her. Elsie, the girl with the messy braids who always hummed while peeling potatoes, who whispered dreams of running away to the ocean. They used to curl up under the thin blankets at night and share secrets, clinging to the hope that life outside those walls was better. Mia had believed her. She had believed in freedom, in happiness, in a world where she could breathe without fear.
But here she was. Tied up in a room that smelled of death, waiting for a man who ruled through fear to decide what to do with her. The world outside felt farther away than ever.
Her breath hitched. The panic was always waiting, ready to crash over her like a wave. She fought it the only way she knew how. She forced herself to remember something else — not a place this time, but a sound.
A song.
One she used to hum to herself when she felt invisible. Soft, broken melodies that made her believe she was more than just another orphan in the corner of the room. When Elsie had nightmares, Mia would sing it, quiet enough so the matron wouldn't hear, but loud enough to remind them both that they weren't alone.
Her lips parted before she could stop herself. The first note came out shaky, thin, but it was real. She kept going.
The words stumbled at first, her throat tight, but then the sound grew steadier. She sang about fear, about trying to hold on when the world wanted to break her. About scars that never faded but became part of who you were. She sang about the ache of wanting freedom, of not knowing if she'd ever find it, but clinging to hope anyway.
Her voice filled the room, bouncing off the concrete, threading through the silence. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't trained. But it was raw. Human.
Tears slid down her cheeks as she kept singing, though she wasn't sure why. Maybe because the sound reminded her she was still alive. Maybe because it was the only thing they hadn't taken from her yet.
She didn't sing for anyone else. She sang for herself.
---
Outside the door, Luca froze.
He had been on his way in, his usual smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, ready to remind her — and everyone else in this place — who held the power. But the sound that reached him wasn't crying. It wasn't begging.
It was singing.
He leaned against the cold wall, his head tilted slightly, listening despite himself.
It wasn't perfect. If anything, it was fragile — a thread of sound that could break at any moment. But there was something in it that made him pause. Something that didn't belong here, in a room built for fear.
It annoyed him at first. How dare she? How could someone sing in a place like this? But as the notes continued, something twisted in his chest, something he hadn't felt in years.
Guilt.
The word made him sneer, though the feeling didn't go away. He tried to push it back, reminding himself of who he was. Luca didn't feel. Luca didn't hesitate. He had built his empire on blood and silence, on shutting down anything that made him weak.
But the cracks were there now, and her voice was slipping through.
His mind dragged him backward, unbidden, to the boy he used to be. Seventeen. The first time he killed. He could still see the man's face, the way his body crumpled to the floor. He had stared at the blood on his own hands, waiting to feel something. Fear. Regret. Triumph. Anything. But there had been nothing. Just emptiness. And that emptiness had become his shield.
Now, because of her, it wasn't holding as strong as it used to.
He clenched his jaw, anger sparking at himself for letting it happen. He should've gone in and silenced her. He should've made sure no one here forgot who was in control.
But he didn't move.
He stayed where he was, listening until the last note faded, leaving only silence behind.
---
Further down the corridor, in the shadows, another figure lingered.
They hadn't meant to stop. But when they heard her voice, they did. They watched as Luca stood frozen outside the door, his expression unreadable to anyone who didn't know him well. But they did. And they saw what it meant.
A smirk tugged at their lips.
So, the little orphan girl wasn't just another frightened body to be broken. She was something more dangerous. Not because of her strength — but because of what she could stir in him.
They turned and slipped away into the darkness, already forming a plan.
Mia didn't know it yet, but her voice had changed everything.
Not just for her.
For him.
And in this world, that kind of power was as dangerous as a loaded gun.