"How long have you known that your father was the mastermind behind my nightmare?" Bisma asked, his voice echoing through the dark factory corridor, chilling her to the absolute core.
The question lingered in the damp, heavy air of the maintenance corridor, sharp as a razor and heavy as lead. Around them, the ancient industrial structure groaned under the assault of the winter storm outside. Water dripped in a relentless, rhythmic cadence from rusted overhead pipes, splashing onto the cold concrete floor. The amber glow of a single flickering emergency lamp cast long, distorted shadows against the damp brick walls, framing Bisma as an unyielding silhouette of ice and iron.
Meira stood frozen in the center of the corridor, her breathing shallow and ragged. The cold air burned her lungs,
