The hours dragged on in suffocating silence, broken only by the occasional shuffle of footsteps or the creak of the warehouse’s rusted doors. Catherine sat bound to the chair, her muscles aching from the unyielding ropes. The cold air bit at her skin, but she refused to let the discomfort weaken her resolve. Her eyes followed her captors’ movements, sharp and calculating, even as her wrists burned from the constant strain.
They were predictable—moving in and out of the room in shifts, keeping watch while Scarface, their leader, barked orders. She had already noted their routine, cataloged their weaknesses. It was only a matter of waiting for the right moment.
But the moment that came wasn’t what she expected.
One of the men, younger than the others and with a crooked scar running along
