The world looked different when she opened her eyes again.
Not darker—
just… fragile.
As if everything could shatter with the slightest breath.
White walls.
Sterile light.
The faint smell of disinfectant.
A hospital.
A nurse stood near the monitor, startled when she saw Sarah awake.
"Oh— you're conscious. Don't move too quickly."
Conscious.
As if she had been asleep.
No—
she had been unmade
and stitched back together into something barely human.
Sarah tried to sit upright, but her muscles screamed in protest.
Her wrists—bandaged.
Her ribs—bruised.
Her throat—raw, like she'd swallowed smoke and blood.
The nurse adjusted an IV drip and spoke with the gentle caution one uses for broken glass.
"You've been through something traumatic. The police want to speak to you when you're stable."
Police?
Sarah blinked.
Images crashed into her like broken glass—
Metal table.
Hands holding her down.
Screams—hers.
Laughter—someone else's.
Blood on tile.
Mark's voice, low and bored:
"Pain is meant to break you."
Her stomach twisted, and she gagged.
The nurse pressed a cold cloth to her forehead.
"It's okay. You're safe now."
Safe.
The word sounded like a cruel joke.
Safe meant walls.
Safe meant warmth.
Safe meant control.
She had none of those things.
The door burst open.
Her brother Liam rushed in—
pale, disheveled, eyes drowning in sleeplessness.
He froze when he saw her awake.
Then everything broke at once.
He ran to her, collapsing beside the bed, hands shaking as he cupped her face.
"Sarah—god, Sarah—"
His voice cracked.
He wasn't the strong one anymore.
She was the one who'd always held the pieces together.
Now he was afraid to touch her, afraid she'd turn to dust.
"Are you okay?"
he whispered.
She didn't know how to answer that.
Her voice was hoarse, distant.
"Where… are the others?"
"Alive," he said quickly.
"A little messed up, but alive."
Alive.
The relief hit so violently she nearly sobbed.
But tears wouldn't come.
Tears would mean softness, and she had none left.
Her father entered next—
not with relief, but with a guilt so heavy it bent his posture.
He stopped at the foot of the bed, unable to meet her eyes.
"It's my fault," he whispered.
"They took you because of me."
Sarah stared at him, numb.
Her throat burned with words she didn't speak— accusations, curses, demands.
But nothing came out.
She didn't have the energy to blame anyone.
Not when the blame would not bring back what was taken.
Instead, she asked:
"How long was I gone?"
The silence stretched, ugly and brittle.
"Two weeks," Liam said.
"They dumped you on the highway. You were half-conscious. Bleeding."
Sarah's hands trembled.
Dumped.
Like trash.
Like cargo that had served its purpose.
She swallowed hard.
"Did they say anything?"
Her father's voice cracked.
"No. No demands. No ransom. Nothing. They didn't want money. They just… wanted to hurt you."
Not hurt—
break.
She heard Mark's voice again, echoing through that empty room:
"Pain is not meant to scare you. It's meant to break you."
Her body shivered uncontrollably.
Not from cold.
From memory.
---
That night, sleep came in fragments— bloody, fractured, unkind.
She dreamed of metal restraints.
Hot breath on her skin.
A scalpel glinting.
And always,
always—
the man with the black hair
and unblinking eyes.
Mark.
She woke with a scream lodged in her throat—
jaw clenched, nails digging into her palms.
Liam rushed into the room.
"You're okay," he said, grabbing her shoulders.
"You're safe."
Safe.
There was that word again.
She pulled her knees to her chest, shaking.
"I don't feel safe."
Silence.
He didn't know what to say.
He wanted to fix things—
but there were some wounds you couldn't bandage.
Some things didn't bleed on the outside.
---
Days passed.
Doctors called it recovery.
Therapists called it trauma.
Her family called it survival.
Sarah called it breathing because her body hadn't learned how to die.
She showered with the lights off.
She flinched every time someone closed a door too loudly.
She slept sitting upright because lying down made her feel trapped.
She didn't speak much.
Words had weight, and she had none left to spare.
Her father tried to talk.
To apologize.
To make amends.
To explain.
But explanations couldn't undo screams that had already happened.
Sometimes she caught him watching her—
that hollow expression of a man who would never forgive himself.
She wasn't ready to forgive him either.
---
One afternoon, she sat on the porch wrapped in a blanket, staring at the street.
Normal houses.
Normal cars.
Normal people living normal lives.
And she—
the girl who now knew what metal tasted like,
what fear smelled like,
what control felt like when someone else held it.
She wondered if she would ever be normal again.
Or if normal had died somewhere in that room.
Somewhere between the first scream
and the last.
Her brother sat beside her.
"Do you remember anything?" he asked quietly.
Sarah's eyes stayed fixed on the road.
"Everything."
Silence.
Pain.
Then—
She added, almost without thinking:
"There was a man."
Liam stiffened.
"A man?"
She nodded.
"He didn't look… like the others."
Her voice was distant, remembering details she wished she didn't.
"He didn't yell. He didn't curse. He didn't enjoy it. He just—"
She hesitated.
What was the word?
"—observed."
Liam's brows drew together.
"Why?"
She didn't know.
None of it made sense.
But one moment replayed in her mind—
over and over,
like a glitch she could not erase:
When he leaned down and whispered,
"Pain isn't meant to scare you, Sarah. It's meant to break you."
Her voice trembled as she admitted:
"He knew my name."
Liam stared at her.
"And you don't know his?"
Her fingers tightened around the blanket.
"No."
But she remembered his face—
sharp lines, cold eyes, effortless control.
She remembered the way he walked away
as if she were already ruined,
already done.
She remembered—
and she hated it.
---
Later that night, she stood in front of the bathroom mirror.
Bandages.
Bruises.
Stitches.
Eyes that did not belong to a girl who used to laugh at bad jokes and steal ice cream from her brothers.
She whispered to the reflection:
"Why me?"
No answer.
But deep down, beneath the scars and fear,
a darker voice murmured back:
Why not you?
---
And somewhere, miles away—
in a building hidden behind glass and steel—
Mark sat at his desk,
scrolling through surveillance footage.
Watching her screams,
her resistance,
her refusal to break.
He paused at one moment—
the final one,
when she stared into the camera,
eyes wild and furious.
A muscle in his jaw tightened.
He whispered to no one:
"She should have broken."
But she didn't.
And for reasons he couldn't name,
that bothered him far more than it should.
He leaned back, eyes narrowed.
"She remembers me."
Of course she did.
He remembered her too.
Not because she was strong.
Not because she survived.
But because—
She wasn't finished.
And neither was he.