When I wake up, nothing around me has the color of cinnamon anymore.
I wake with a heavy head and a dry mouth, being dragged down a long, narrow corridor, held by the arms by two massive bodies moving with purpose, without hurry, as if I were an awkward piece of luggage, not a living being. The floor is cold under my bare feet, the air smells of dampness and metal, and the gray walls seem to close in as we move forward, like a basement never meant for people.
My head is buzzing, images come and go chaotically, and the only thing that's clear is that everything that had been warm, intimate, and alive is completely gone. Duca isn't beside me. And his absence hurts more than the hands gripping my arms.
I try to wrench myself free, but all I manage is a short groan. Their arms are hard, indifferent. They don't ask me anything. They don't explain anything.
We reach a wider space, poorly lit, where a man I've never seen before is waiting. He's massive, broad-shouldered, with a presence that weighs on the air without ever raising his voice. His gaze is cold, calculating, and the smile he wears holds nothing friendly in it.
"Hugo," he says simply, his pronounced Russian accent unmistakable. "I'm the one who's going to take care of you."
The way he says the words tightens my stomach.
Hugo stands a few steps away, and his presence feels even heavier now that I know he's the one pulling the strings. He stands straight, calm, with a cold certainty that needs no grand gestures, and the relaxed look of contempt on his face sends chills through me.
"I want to see Duca," I say. My voice trembles, but it doesn't break. "Now."
Hugo smiles briefly, without a trace of humor.
"No."
The word falls simply and decisively.
"You won't see him. And if you're smart, you won't ask for him again. That is, unless you want to die faster," he adds, grinning. "And it would be a shame to lose such a tasty little piece like you before we get to enjoy ourselves a bit, wouldn't it?"
Hugo nods, and one of the men lets go of me so abruptly that I nearly fall. I steady myself with difficulty, and only then do I notice what's behind them.
Cells.
Thick metal doors. Bars. Narrow, filthy spaces, dimly lit, that look exactly like a clandestine prison. A place that should not exist.
My heart starts to pound wildly.
"No… you can't do this," I say, more to myself than to them.
"Oh, we can," Hugo replies, opening one of the doors. "And believe me, it's for your own good."
His words hit harder than the hand that shoves me inside.
"Go to hell," I spit at him before he can close it.
My saliva hits his cheek. For a moment, his gaze darkens dangerously, but then he smiles wide, mocking.
"You'll get over it," he says calmly. "Everyone does."
The door slams shut behind me with a heavy, metallic sound that sinks straight into my bones. The cold creeps in almost immediately, clinging to my skin, while the darkness descends slowly and settles over me like a filthy blanket, impossible to push away.
I remain motionless for a few seconds—maybe more—until my knees give out and I slide down onto the floor, my back pressed against the cold wall, breathing in broken, arrhythmic gasps, as the images in my head begin to blur and overlap, impossible to stop.
First, Gaston comes to mind—him falling, so fast he didn't even get to finish what he was saying, that look of surprise that never had time to turn into anything else, the sharp crack of the gunshot still ringing in my head, and the patch of blood too red on the floor. An image that comes back again and again, sticky, stubborn, as if it's been burned into the inside of my eyelids.
Then, without any pause, without giving me time to breathe, Hugo's voice slips in—low and certain, calm in a sick way—telling me that if Duca comes after me, I'll die faster. He throws the sentence into the air like a simple, unavoidable truth, shaping the threat in a twisted, perverse way, as if Duca were the one who would kill me, not them, as if his love and protection were the real danger.
That thought hits me over and over again, clings to me, refuses to leave. Duca coming toward me. Duca walking through the door. Duca finding me here. And every single time, the image breaks violently, ends badly, and my stomach knots so tight I feel nauseous.
I see him everywhere, even with my eyes closed. I hear his voice, feel his hands the way they were—steady, warm—and that's exactly what makes it hurt more, because my mind starts playing tricks on me, mixing safety with fear, rescue with death, until I no longer know what's real and what isn't.
My body grows heavy, sticky, as if the air around me has turned into a thick paste I have to push through. My skin prickles, cold and hot at the same time. A strange crying takes hold of me—silent at first, just my shoulders shaking, my breath cut short—until the tears start to spill on their own, dirty, uncontrolled.
"Duca…" slips out of me before I can stop it, his name leaving my mouth like a broken prayer.
I call for him and, at the same time, I'm afraid of him—and that thought scares me almost as much as Gaston's death. Everything spins, everything blends together, and for a few moments I feel myself sliding toward an edge where things no longer make sense.
I breathe in jagged gasps, I cry and then laugh briefly, hysterically, for no clear reason, aware that something inside me is starting to crack—but clinging desperately to one single thing: if I start to give in now, there will be nothing left to fix.
I am that helpless teenager again, trapped in a place where she sees no way out, her body small and folded in on itself, her fear too big to fit into a single breath.
I bring my hands to my head and hold myself tight, trying to stay here, in the present, not to lose myself completely, while panic comes in stronger and stronger waves—and beneath all the noise inside me, one single thought appears, stubborn and clear.
I will not give in.
I draw a deep breath, even though the air is cold and heavy, and I force my body to calm down, reminding myself that I've been here before, in one form or another, that I know what despair looks like and what it does when you let it run free.
There is always a way out, even if I can't see it right now, even if it isn't clear, even if it seems impossible.
But it's there.
And I will find it.
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