The hallway stank of bleach and something metallic, like blood that had been scrubbed too many times but never truly gone.
Each flickering bulb overhead buzzed like a warning.
I walked anyway.
Boots silent on concrete, spine straight, heart steady. I knew how they wanted me to feel—trapped, alone, afraid.
They didn’t understand me at all.
Fear wasn’t my enemy anymore.
It was my fuel.
Another camera followed me. I felt it move. I didn’t look at it.
The corridor opened into a wider room. Still industrial. Still bare.
But at the center stood a chair—thick steel frame, leather restraints curling like dead vines across the arms.
Beside it, a table.
On it, a photograph.
My mother.
Tied to a chair. Eyes swollen. Mouth gagged.
Alive.
My hand didn’t shake as I picked it up. But I fel
