Victor's lips were cracked.
His tongue felt thick, swollen, foreign in his mouth.
The water they'd brought with the last meal—whenever that had been—was long gone, and the thirst was becoming unbearable.
He'd been rationing, trying to make each sip last, but two days in this stone tomb had taught him that rationing only prolonged the suffering.
His body ache for water. Needed air that didn't taste like damp stone.
Needed anything other than these four walls pressing closer with each passing hour.
When the door opened, Victor didn't even sit up at first.
Just another meal. Another silent guard.
Another reminder that no one was coming to save him.
But this time, the guard lingered in the doorway.
Not the usual one—this man was younger, maybe mid-twenties, with nervous eyes that kept darting toward the stairs.
"Acqua," the guard said, setting down a bottle of water. Not on a tray this time. Just the bottle, like an afterthought.
