The cell was silent now.
No footsteps. No whispers. No taunts. Just the faint echo of her own breath and the soft scrape of metal against stone. Lucky lay curled on the cold floor, the knife still in her hand, her body trembling from more than fear—it was the exhaustion of a life stretched beyond endurance.
Her mind drifted back to the river, to the sunlight that had once kissed her face, to the laughter of children she had never truly known. She remembered her first days on Earth, how every human she met had seemed full of warmth and possibility.
And then, the betrayal, the cruelty, the endless cycles of confinement and despair.
Tears blurred her vision as she whispered into the dark: "I wanted to believe… I wanted to belong… I wanted to live… but I am so tired."
She thought of the stars she had once imagined beyond the city lights. She imagined them now as distant eyes, watching, unjudging, indifferent. She felt herself slip, not with fear, but with a weary acceptance.
In that moment, she was both gone and still present—a ghost of hope, a shadow of innocence lost. The world would not remember her, would not understand her, and perhaps that was fitting.
Lucky closed her eyes, her last whisper a sigh: "I hope I won't be human again."