Chapter 44 up
Darkness still clung to Nyla’s eyelids when she woke. The damp smell of rusted iron stabbed at her nose, tightening her chest before she was fully conscious. The chain around her ankle was cold and heavy—a cruel reminder that her body was in a place she did not know, and did not choose.
She drew a slow breath. One inhale, one exhale. Counting. Surviving.
Her body felt weak, as if time itself were slowly draining her strength. Her throat was dry, her head throbbing. Nyla swallowed what little saliva she had left. She closed her eyes for a moment, calming the noisy chaos in her mind. Crying would not help. Panic would only hasten destruction.
When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she began to observe. Rough concrete walls, a cold floor, an iron door to the right with a narrow slit at eye level. Through that slit, a thin blade of light slipped in—just enough to mark the passage of time.
Footsteps echoed. Heavy. Two pairs. Nyla shifted her body slightly, holding her breath. From outside the door, men’s voices spoke in low tones.
“About the same time,” one said.
“Yeah. Come in, check, leave. Don’t linger.”
Nyla stored the words in her mind. Time. Come, check, leave. A pattern.
The footsteps moved away. The door did not open. Nyla let out a careful breath. She counted the seconds until the sound completely disappeared, then moved her wrist. The chain clinked softly—she stopped. Too loud.
She waited.
Time became a strange thing in that place. Sometimes it stretched, sometimes it collapsed. Nyla used whatever she could to mark it: footsteps, shifting light, hunger that came and went. Morning? Afternoon? Night? She didn’t know for sure, but her body remembered the rhythm. Every few hours, the door opened, water was set down, bread was tossed in without a word.
Nyla began to take notes—not on paper, but in memory. First interval: one guard. Next: two. Certain hours: the door stayed open longer. Certain hours: carelessness.
She shifted her body, feeling the floor with her fingertips. In the corner, something small brushed her skin. Thin metal. A bolt? A piece of wire? Nyla suppressed the smile that almost formed—she could not hope too soon. She closed her palm, hiding the object beneath her clothes, pressing it flat so it wouldn’t fall.
Footsteps returned. This time, closer. The door opened with a metallic screech that made Nyla’s heart jump.
“Drink,” a cold voice said.
Nyla crawled forward slowly and took the bottle. She didn’t look at their faces. Looking could be seen as defiance. Defiance could mean punishment. She sipped the water little by little, conserving her strength.
“Don’t try anything,” the other guard said. “You’re here because you were told to be.”
Told to be. The words echoed. Nyla lowered her head, her jaw tightening. The name—the one she refused to speak—spun in her mind. Selena. The certainty stabbed, but it also gave shape to her fear. An enemy with a face was easier to face than a nameless shadow.
The door closed. Darkness returned.
Nyla waited a long time before moving. She pulled the small object from beneath her clothes. A thin, bent, rusted wire. Not a perfect tool, but enough to try. She moved closer to the chain, her fingers trembling—not from fear, but from weakness. She regulated her breathing and guided the wire toward the lock.
Krek.
The tiny sound froze her blood. Nyla froze. Footsteps approached—one pair, fast. She dropped the wire, returned to her original position, slumped and weak.
The door opened halfway. Eyes peered through the slit. Nyla held her breath, focusing on the pounding of her heart in her ears. One second. Two.
The door closed again.
Nyla released a long breath that nearly turned into a sob. Her hands shook violently. She hugged herself, holding back the sudden surge of trauma crashing in. Images of the past slipped through—nights when she was alone, abandoned, broken. Clark’s once-cold voice. Selena’s false smile. Everything blurred together into a suffocating fog.
“No,” she whispered to herself. “Not now.”
She wiped away the tears that fell without permission. Crying was allowed. Giving up was not.
Carefully, Nyla retrieved the wire and hid it more securely. She waited until her body calmed, until the shaking subsided. Then she began counting again. Time. Patterns. Openings.
The next time the guards came, they were late. The footsteps were heavier. Their voices rougher. Nyla noted it. There were days when humans grew careless—when exhaustion made them sloppy.
When the door closed again, Nyla worked fast. The wire slid in once more. Her hands ached. Her shoulders burned. Cold sweat soaked her temples. The lock creaked softly—she stopped, listening. Silence.
She pushed a little harder.
Click.
Not open yet. But something had changed. A small, dangerous hope flared in her chest. She smiled faintly in the dark—a fragile but stubborn smile.
Footsteps approached again, suddenly. Too fast.
Nyla hid the wire and slumped back. The door opened. A flashlight swept the floor. The beam paused on the chain. Nyla held her breath, her body feeling like glass about to shatter.
“Sleeping,” the guard muttered, then the door closed once more.
Nyla collapsed, trembling violently, then laughed without sound—a small laugh born on the thin line between fear and survival. She pressed her forehead to the cold floor, feeling its texture, assuring herself she was still here.
She stared at the sliver of light, gathering the last scraps of strength she had left. In her mind, she rebuilt the plan. Slowly. Patiently. Don’t rush.
In a voice barely audible, Nyla whispered—not to anyone, but to herself, to the night, to the fear that had not yet won:
“I’m not defeated yet.”