The two weeks that followed were a blur of shadows and skin. I existed in a cycle of dark corridors and cold rooms, being moved between Leonardo’s calculated dominance and Vincent’s frantic, silent hunger. My body felt like it no longer belonged to me; it was a map of bruises and memories of hands that only knew how to take.
Inside the cell, the only small comfort I had was Sophia. We sat in the damp corner of our room, the single barred window casting a pale sliver of moonlight across the stone floor. Sophia leaned closer to me, her voice a fragile thread in the dark.
"Matteo... he's different, Lucia," she whispered, a strange, painful softness in her eyes that I hadn't seen before.
"When he brings the food, or when he’s told to watch me... he doesn't look at me like a piece of meat.
