Ayra’s screams followed us down the corridor like the echo of a guilty conscience.
“Please, Angelo! I didn’t do it…”
Her voice was swallowed when the guards slammed the door shut. The metallic clang reverberated, final, like a verdict. I stood frozen, my hand half-raised, as though I could catch her words mid-air and pull them back. But I didn’t. I let them lock her away.
Angelo didn’t so much as flinch. His command had been sharp, cold, merciless: “Put her in a cell back home.” And his men obeyed without hesitation.
I told myself I didn’t care. That Ayra deserved whatever she got. But the look on her face before the door closed - a flash of betrayal, of someone being buried alive - lodged itself under my skin.
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Two days later, A
